


Touch

by BlueMonkey, ThornyHedge



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Forensics, Male Slash, Professors, Psychic Abilities, RPF, Washington D.C., hurt!Aidan, hurt!Dean, hurt!Richard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMonkey/pseuds/BlueMonkey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornyHedge/pseuds/ThornyHedge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean O'Gorman is a psychic who can tell things about a person or object simply by touch.  Aidan Turner is a gifted forensics officer proud of his deductive skills.  Sparks fly when Dean is called in to help solve a crafty serial killer's spree. </p><p> </p><p>Note: Rating will be upped to Explicit... eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hang Out The Shingle

**Author's Note:**

> It's always such a thrill being able to begin posting a new story. We hope you enjoy our foray into the world of psychics and serial killers.

Dean was in second grade before he realized that not everyone got to see a movie inside of their heads when they picked up objects.

Dean could pick up a pencil he found in the school hallway and know that Amelia Jones had dropped it. He touched his mother's hairbrush after she’d used it and knew whether or not she was in a good mood. At a restaurant, he could eat his hamburger and in his mind, he could see the cook putting it together.

It was about that time that he also began to realize that people didn't like it when he told them what he saw. And so he stopped. At least, he tried to.

But one day, when he was fourteen and he was visiting his grandparents, he saw something awful. His grandmother asked him to set the table, handing him a pile of dishes. The dishes crashed to the floor when he got a flash of his grandmother, dead, in her coffin. She was sick—dying—and she hadn’t told anyone. But Dean told his mother and father about it when he got home. 

His grandmother died three months later. None of them ever quite forgave him—and he was never quite sure if they resented him for knowing, or hated him for telling.

Soon after that, he started wearing gloves. He found that when the skin of his hands wasn't making contact with objects, he didn't get the movies in his head. At first, he wore winter gloves—and he bore no end of bullying because of that. As he grew older, he discovered more expensive, thin leather gloves that allowed him to function with near normalcy, yet still spared him from the visions.

He was in college before he found out there was an official name for what he could do: psychometry.

Psychics, he learned far too early in life, freaked people out. _He_ freaked people out. Dean was willing to do whatever it took to be normal.

That is, until he found out that what he could do could be used to save lives.

\- - - - - 

They called him a know-it-all. He didn't mean to.

Aidan would just sit there as a kid, with all the other kids running around or asking questions, some of them shyly trying to connect with the others and the teacher doing her best to give all of them enough of her time. He didn't care about the things she tried to make him do, like painting unicorns or wrapping paper mache around balloons, and he never participated whenever Mrs. Gray would tell him to, again and again. Then, when she had informed his parents, his mum and dad started pushing him to be 'normal' too. Mrs. Gray didn't understand, like she didn't understand a lot of things.

Aidan preferred to spend his days just sitting there watching. He asked the girl who tried to befriend him that she didn't need to keep looking at Jennifer and Emma for support, because he knew she didn't really want to talk to him, just as he knew about the dare. He told the boy who kept pushing him over in order to get a response that he knew his dog just died and that taking it out on him was pointless.

Nobody had told him, see, but the signs were obvious.

The kids in his kindergarten class soon ignored him, his teacher called him antisocial, and his parents didn't know what to do. Things continued that way throughout the rest of Aidan's days in school. He smiled when he saw others fall in love in high school and he shut himself off emotionally when he read the signs that they had started fighting. He could tell the ones with a hangover during the first hours of school from the ones who stayed sober—shoelaces a mess, wearing a fresh set of clothes, yet looking like they had not showered.

Aidan Turner was a genius in some areas and a lost case in many others. He was a man of science; he was brilliant when it came to calculations and areas that required insight, but his art teachers had not seen a boy so hopelessly useless, with gym being a downright disaster. That was why, despite having an IQ score of 164, Aidan did not graduate early or late, but exactly on time. If people looked at his scores, they would think he was perfectly average.

Average enough to almost not make it into the forensics major.

Things changed for him when he did. His grades sky-rocketed and his teachers wrote him letters of recommendation for whatever job he wanted. For Aidan, life and acknowledgement started only at his eighteenth year. People still thought he was quirky, but they respected him now.

He still remembered the rush of that first arrest. Society held one less threat after his analysis of evidence that everybody said would give away no clues. He, on the verge of adulthood, had brought in a serial killer. People he had never met broke out crying in happiness when they saw him. Nobody liked who he was, but they loved him for what he could do. He saw everything for what it was, read the signs like they were spelled out before him and he brought justice. He was a god.

It was intoxicating.

\- - - - - 

Richard was 28 years old when he met Dean, and his wife had just died.

What began as a headache that wouldn't go away came to be diagnosed as a brain tumor. After that, it spread rapidly. She passed away, emaciated and drugged to the gills, six month later.

It got bad for Richard weeks later, when his friends and family stopped calling to check on him. He truly felt he might go mad with loneliness—could someone die of grief? He drank. Often. In copious amounts.

One evening, he had run out of bourbon and decided to walk down the street to a pub he'd seen but never entered. When he opened the door, out stumbled a slight blond man, who'd been in the process of—oddly enough—pulling on a pair of gloves. It was late May and far too warm for gloves.

Richard steadied the man with one hand, reaching down to retrieve the glove he'd dropped. The supple, fine leather felt foreign in his hand. 

"Here," he said gruffly, handing the item over. "You dropped this."

The blond swayed a bit unsteadily despite Richard's assistance. When he accepted the glove, their hands brushed and the younger man looked a bit green around the gills, as if he might be ill.

"Are you all right?" Richard wondered. He really didn't want this stranger puking on his shoes.

"I—yes. Thank you," he took the glove and hurriedly slipped it onto his pale hand. "I'm very sorry for your loss," he added gently, as Richard slipped past him.

"Do I know you?" Richard studied the man's face carefully. He did seem a bit familiar. "Are you one of my students?"

"I'm no-one's student now," the blond smiled wryly. "I graduated college today. I'm celebrating," he threw his hands up, which made him lose his balance, "because I have no clue what I'm going to do with the rest of my life."

_Graduation. Was that today?_

"I teach at the college," Richard explained. "That must be where we met."

"What do you teach?" the blond wondered. 

"Calculus, higher math," Richard told him.

"Ah," the other man wrinkled his nose. "I didn't take any math that _complicated._ My degree, it's in psychology. I'm Dean, by the way," he held out a gloved hand for Richard to shake. "Dean O'Gorman. We must have seen each other around campus." 

Richard shook the hand. "Yes, Dean...that must be it. I'm Richard Armitage. Were you at Laney's funeral?"

Dean shook his head. "I just...you see, there's this talent I have. I can touch things—people—and I just _know_ things."

"I think you've had too much to drink, my friend," Richard smiled gently, easing him down onto the bench to the left of the pub's door.

"That may well be the case," Dean smiled blearily up at him, "but it doesn't change things. When I touched your hand, I saw her. Your wife—Laney, is it?—on her death bed. The sheets...they were yellow. And in her coffin as well, surrounded by yellow roses. Yellow must have been her favorite color."

Richard wanted to hit this man. Instead, he nodded and started to cry.

\- - - - 

**FIFTEEN YEARS LATER**

"Hey, Rich," Dean looked up from his newspaper and sat his coffee mug aside as the older man padded sleepily into the kitchen, "I think I’ve found something worth pursuing."

"Morning," Richard needed coffee to function, and poured himself a generous mug supplemented with cream before sitting down. "Whatcha got, mate?"

Dean turned the newspaper— _The Washington Post_ —to face him. The headline read "Vigilante Strikes Again."

They had been in the southern suburbs of Washington, D.C. for only six days. Most of their boxes were still half unpacked. 

"It's too soon," Richard pronounced. "We aren't even settled in yet, and—"

"This guy kills other criminals," Dean explained. "Men and women who are murderers. And he always seems to be one step ahead of local law enforcement. They have some of the best forensic specialists in the city on his trail. He's good. Really good."

"We should leave him alone, if you ask me," the coffee, a bit too warm to drink, burned Richard's stomach. "Sounds like he's doing the world a service."

"Maybe so," Dean said absently, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and it was obvious. 

Richard changed the subject. "I have my first class in ninety minutes. Differential Calculus."

"Oooh, stimulating," Dean smiled, reaching for the cornflakes.

"What are you going to do today?" Richard grinned around the bagel in his mouth. "Ready to hang out the shingle and help some people?" Richard had made sure that the first items unpacked were the furniture and accessories Dean used in his consultation room.

The pair had been travelling the country since they’d met. Richard, fascinated by what Dean could do, talked him into using his ability to make money and help people. They moved every few years. Teaching jobs were always available—especially in Richard's field, and a new crop of clients always seemed to spring up for Dean. Word of mouth was an incredible tool.

Dean didn't charge a lot for his services, but he was often paid double his fee in tips when he delivered information in spades. He had helped a wealthy young girl recently engaged to find a very expensive wedding ring she'd misplaced in her house. He helped a grieving son find where his father had left his will before he died. He'd assisted the Seattle police in collaring an art thief. 

But, with his successes, came detractors, bad press, and the occasional spot of trouble—which necessitated moving, and often.

_The shingle_ that Richard referred to really was that— a placard they could hang outside the door of their townhouse announcing that this was the place of business of The Bloodhound. The Bloodhound, who could discern information from objects and other people's hands. 

Dean preferred to work with objects, of course.

Richard had used his woodworking skills to create the sign. Prior to their move, he'd also placed a few classifieds in the local papers to try to drum up business. Dean had already received two phone calls. 

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I think today's a good day to start. But nothing complicated. Let's leave catching killers to the professionals."

"No one's as good as you," Richard patted his roommate on the shoulder and left to get dressed for his first day at Strayer University.

\- - - - - 

Adam, well, Adam was a bit of an oddball to everyone.

To be sure, teachers and parents alike had doted on him when he was young, and he had a kindness to him that made other kids fall into friendship with him easily. He wasn't overly popular because he had that streak that didn't cope well with bullying or treating other people poorly, even if he didn't know or like them, himself, but Adam managed to get through his first twelve-or-so years just fine.

Then came the dreaded puberty. While smoking became a thing and looking attractive for the opposite—or, in some cases, the same—sex became the rule to live one's life for everyone around him, Adam had little room in this new world in which mating season had just begun, not with his adorable hobbies that turned into quirks. Drama class, carving small figures out of wood and most of all, reading science books of topics that interested him but were too advanced and thus unworthy of the others set him apart. And Adam settled for the alternative.

His pen tugged light little sketch lines over the notebook paper. Whenever someone looked at him, he feigned focus by nibbling on the end of that pen. Not that anyone understood that he thought better when his hands were drawing.

"All right," Chief McTavish, bureaucratic leader of the team assembled around Adam, said, "Listen up, we haven't heard from our killer for a few weeks. That's not a good thing. The longer he waits, the more time is running out for someone." He clicked the remote in his hand to the next slide, which was an unfortunate graphic picture of a woman with her hands cut off at the wrist and placed over her mouth. Adam winced at the crudeness of the photograph. The light was blown, making some details hard to work with. "And this is what we're trying to prevent, another one like this woman. Has anyone got anything he is working on now?" Nobody replied. "Turner?" But even Aidan shook his head, visibly dismayed. Adam wondered what kind of pressure had to be on those shoulders. 

The daily brief to keep up to date with anyone's progress ended within ten minutes.

\- - - - - 

Adam carried what little evidence had been collected at the scene of the murder back to the small office he shared with Aidan, adjacent to their laboratory.

The murdered woman was named Genevieve McDonald. She'd been out of jail four days before she was found dead by her parole officer. The Vampire, as she'd been labeled, McDonald had killed her own nine-year-old daughter by biting open her jugular. The poor girl bled out and her mother got sent to jail on a much shorter sentence than she should have because her lawyer had argued strongly for insanity.

Adam could barely look at her photo without being angry at her still.

He sat the meager contents of the evidence basket down between their desks and clapped his hands together. "As usual, our Vigilante didn't leave much at the scene to work with. Where shall we start?"

"I've been over all of that." Aidan was, for all intents and purposes, not amused. He eyed the basket like an arch enemy. Not a clue, not a single clue had allowed itself to be uncovered by him. Whoever this killer was, he was meticulous and perfect in every sense. "It almost makes me want to meet this guy, or girl, or whoever it is. This, it's not evidence. Every piece is worthless, and the only reason we have it is because there is nothing else. Nothing, I have nothing." And it frustrated the hell out of him. "I hope he messes up with his new kill. I need new material."

"You act like you think someone's messing with us," Adam grinned at Aidan's supposition. "D'you think, maybe, the murderer is...a forensics person? I mean, it does almost seem as if they are leaving us the clues they _want_ us to find—and nothing more." 

It was aggravating, but also quite scintillating. Adam hadn't been this excited about a case in years.

\- - - - 

Dean, who was surfing the internet, smiled when he heard Richard unlocking the front door and coming into the foyer. 

"Hey," he bounded out to greet him. "How was your first day?" He reached out and took Richard's briefcase from his hands. Dean never wore the gloves at home, so he picked up a slight vibe from the leather item. "You met someone!"

"I met lots of people, Dean," Richard smiled at him with amusement playing in his eyes. "That's what first days tend to make you do. But to answer your question, yes, it was a wonderful day. I think I'll like it here." He got out of his suit jacket and allowed Dean to take his bag away from him. It still had his phone, though it was nice not to have it on him from time to time. "A lot of nice people, and the campus itself is beautiful. God, I'm beat." He lay down on the couch with his soon shoeless feet on one of the rests and sighed. "So, how was your day? You look like you got some work done."

"I had a visitor, not an hour after you hung out the shingle," Dean told him. "A nice old woman who lives down the block. She just wanted to talk; see what I could do. I gave her a little example, and I think she'll be back," he smiled, "with friends. So..." he held Richard's briefcase for a moment longer before putting it aside on the table, "tell me about Lee."

Richard laughed. "There's no fooling you! After a cup of coffee." If Dean wanted something from him, then he wanted something in return.

Not, Richard thought to himself, that he wasn't jumping at the chance to have his friend analyze Lee—or that doing so was a wise decision. He waited with a lacking patience for Dean to place a mug in front of him on the low table in front of the sofa, then closed his eyes and sighed. It was like lying on a psychiatrist's couch, but in a good way. "He looks good. And he's nice. He's got a girlfriend as far as I understood, of course," Richard scowled. "The good ones are always taken. Did I mention he looks really good?" He opened his eyes. "Do you think we should decorate this place? It could really do with some warm hues."

Dean, who had made a fresh pot of coffee only thirty minutes earlier, went to the kitchen to pour Richard a mug-full. He added a splash of cream and a packet of Splenda and stirred it. 

There was a time when it would have been painful talking about relationships with Richard. After Laney died, he was inconsolable for some time. And then, Dean and Richard turned to one another—for a long time. But now that was over, and they had settled into a comfortable platonic roommate relationship.

Dean made a point of brushing Richard's hand when he handed him the mug.

"He's tall," Dean handed it to Richard. "Taller than you."

Richard knew the routine by now and extended his hand for Dean to read. "I know," he smiled. "It feels nice to be in his company. I probably don't have to tell you he teaches English and I hardly saw him except during breaks, but I think he'll give me a reason to look forward to those moments. You know, as friends." 

He hadn't actively pursued anyone in a while—Dean hadn't been actively pursuing, him and Richard had just happened from one moment to the next—and he certainly had a healthy respect for someone being taken. "You should get out some time too. Meet new people. Most of your clients are elderly women and besides, it's not very healthy to start dating a patient. Do you want us to go for dinner later?"

"I could cook," Dean shrugged. "You look worn out. It's not a surprise. You want people to like you, to impress them. This guy, Lee..." he closed his eyes and the name came to him, "Dr. Pace," he smiled, "he seems to like you. And the girl...she's not permanent. Just a bit of fun."

Dean's eyes glazed over a bit as he spoke, left hand gently caressing the top of Richard's hand. "The head of Mathematics, John Callen— _Dean_ Callen, he was impressed, but he thinks you're trying too hard. You need to just be yourself," he released Richard's hand. "I have been telling you that for years, you know."

"Tell me again," Richard mused, "how you can see all of that just by touching my hand. I mean, I know you can look through my eyes, so to say, but it shouldn't physically be possible to know about her through me. I haven't met her." He poked Dean kindly and ignored the comment about trying too hard. "I meant, we could go out for food and see if you could make some friends around here. Last few places we stayed, you had few people other than your clients and some friends from the photography club. It's such a waste not to see what the world has to offer. When is the last time you liked someone? Come on, be honest now."

_Ugh._ Dean rolled his eyes. "I hate when you get like this, Rich," he smiled gently. "New places, so many stimuli at once," his fingers itched to put on the gloves he'd left in his bedside table. "And you know the answer to your damn question," he picked up Richard's empty mug. "There's been no-one since you...and I'm okay with that. Why do you make me say it?"

Richard's smile fell at that. "I did not mean it like that, you know I didn't. I only wish I could see you in love again. It looked good on you." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stretching his legs. "I'll prepare dinner tonight, all right? Or if you insist," Dean probably would, "then let me help."

"It's an old joke, you know," Dean smiled, walking the mug to the sink, "the psychic who doesn't know when love is coming. But I'm glad I don't know. I don't want to know. You remember how it is, when I was getting to know you...wearing the gloves all the time. It was weird," he reminded Richard, "despite your leather fetish. There's enough leftover lasagna in here from last night," he announced, holding up the covered baking dish. He switched on the oven. "We just need some salad and we're set"

"I can live with just lasagna if it's tonight," Richard offered freely. He looked up at the ceiling, thought about Lee from the professor’s lounge, and smiled. Dean's radar only had a grip on him when he touched him, so he was safe for this private moment of imagination. "You know I still find your hands in leather very attractive."

"Maybe you can get Lee a pair," Dean chuckled. 

The telephone rang and he leaned to pick it up.

"Mrs. Malone!" Dean smiled, motioning to Richard to indicate that it was the woman he'd met with earlier that day. "Yes, yes, I'd be happy to have you back over. You bring along whatever items you'd like me to work with. It's fifty dollars for 30 minutes. Yes, that's all. Tomorrow at 11 a.m. work for you? Great," he smiled. "See you then, Emma."

Dean turned to Richard with a grin. "The Bloodhound is back in business."


	2. I Assure You, They're Both Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detectives McTavish and Turner come to Dean's house to test his abilities.

A month passed, and in that time The Vigilante claimed another victim...this time a child pornographer who had never even been to prison. He had a list of offences a mile long, but none of the children he'd victimized were willing to testify. He had been beheaded-- _both_ heads.

The Vigilante left little to no physical evidence left behind.

\- - - - - 

"These are incredible," Gwen McTavish took another bite of the apricot thumbprint cookies Dean had made.

"I'm glad you like them," Dean smiled. "I like my favorite clients to feel at home."

Mrs. McTavish had come to Dean three times in the past month. Apparently she was simply obsessed with the idea of being able to know things simply by touching objects. She had brought him a pocket watch that had belonged to her father, her daughter's jump rope, and, on this visit, a package she had yet to open.

"You should open a bakery," she joked, "you'd always know exactly what each customer wanted. All you would have to do is shake their hands."

"If I shook that many hands in one day, without my gloves, my hair would turn gray and fall out," Dean only half-joked. "I'm a bit of recluse, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Well," the trim forty-year-old leaned forward conspiratorially, "how would you like that to change?" She opened the Ziploc bag she was carrying and pulled out a cloth-wrapped item. A lighter. "See what you get from this," she suggested.

In the distance of the kitchen, Dean's phone sprang into existence with a message bearing Richard's tune. Dean smiled at it--Richard wasn't fond of messages unless it was really something and he didn't want to impose on Dean's working hours at the same time--and tuned it out. He studied the lighter as he turned it over in his leather-clad hands, then took one off and ran it across the ridged surface.

It was old, this one. "An heirloom. Something that's been in the family for generations. But--" Dean frowned. Something was not right, "--not yours. You should return this to the rightful family, Mrs. McTavish. It wasn't supposed to get lost when she died, and I believe it would make her father very happy. He doesn't have much time left to him."

Gwen sat in silence for a moment. She had expected this, of course, but something about it made her sad this time around. "What was her name?" she whispered, as if speaking was too loud.

"The same as yours, and bearing your maiden name."

It was why Graham had held on to it after the victim's father, her only kin, said not to want it then, because of the memories, and had thrown it in the trash bin.

Mrs. McTavish's hands were shaking. "It was my husband's case. Is it okay if I bring him along to see you some time?"

"Your husband's a...policeman?" Dean frowned. "Oh, Gwen," he sighed, "I have a very strict policy about not getting involved with the law. It's always ended quite badly for me."

"But your gift..." Gwen looked sad at that. "I understand, of course. Being married to him for nearly ten years now, I can't help but think, well, this is nice, what we're doing, and you can help people, soothe them or give answers they need to deal with things, but your gift, it has the ability to save actual lives. And you shouldn't need get that involved to make a difference." She looked at her hands. "Even when you think you're not making one. My husband, he comes home at nine or later every night. He cannot stop thinking about the case he is working on right now. When I talk to him, he's absent. You would really help, Dean."

"When you say it like that, I look like an idiot not to offer my talents," Dean looked sadly away from the table, "but trust me when I tell you that people who train--be it at an academy, or in college--to catch criminals, day in and day out--don't take kindly to what I can do." He stood and went to the sideboard. "Let me show you."

He pulled out a scrapbook of clippings that went back fourteen years or so. "I had to leave Connecticut because I discovered that the Mayor was extorting from the city. We left Miami because I accidentally outed a known drug dealer. San Francisco, due to uncovering that a police chief was corrupt. In Kansas City, I _did_ help catch a murderer...but during that time, they also accused me of being a killer myself. Not everyone is as understanding as you are, Gwen," he said softly. "But, truth be told," he closed the book, "I have never felt more alive than when I was working on a criminal case."

"I'd have Graham vouch for you, of course," Gwen encouraged him. "You wouldn't have to worry about anyone treating you like that. If nothing else, you could be an anonymous source. Nobody would bother you for what you can do." She took a sip from her tea. "It's awful how petty people can get when they're afraid of something."

Dean felt a glimmer of hope blossom in his chest. "I...maybe," he dared to hope it could work this time. "I'll take a meeting with him, if you think I should."

Richard was going to kill him.

She carefully pocketed the item and smiled at him. "I'll take him along next time, how does that sound? And if you choose not to do it, then nobody will push it. You're really a kind person, Dean."

Out of her bag, Gwen took a last item she wanted read. Her friend, possibly interested in a reading for herself, had asked her to. Into Dean's hand she placed a plastic, beaded bracelet that appeared to belong to a child. It was pink and purple, interspersed with glittery silver beads.

"This was Abby's," Dean said after a moment. "Abby was five, no _six_. She died. Drowned. She was wearing this when she drowned," he said sadly. "What were you hoping I could tell you about this?"

She inclined her head. "Just that, actually. This bracelet belonged to my friend's daughter. She unfortunately died too young. My friend is interested in your gift and she gave me a challenge." Mrs. McTavish smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, it wasn't very prudent to test you like this. It's that she is rather sceptical about the supernatural. She would really like to know more about Abby, but she is reluctant about trusting your gift." When she looked at the clock, she flustered. "Oh, you've kept me here far too long. I should go. Is it okay if I call you about my husband later?"

Dean nodded, happy to be handing back the tiny bracelet and putting his gloves back on. "Yeah," he told her, voice husky from what he'd seen of poor Abby's untimely death. "Tell your friend I'll talk to her. And as far as your husband...well, I'm sure he'll have his suspicions. Most law enforcement people do. I'll meet with him. Alone, though, or with you present. I don't feel comfortable just walking into a precinct office."

"That's perfectly understandable." She seemed happy enough that someone could perhaps help her husband in that dreadful case, and get him back to her after working hours.

\- - - - -

Late and drenched to his socks, thanks to an unexpected afternoon rain shower on his way back, Richard spent the first twenty minutes of his late self in the shower, and only then sought out his flatmate for a lazy over-the-shoulder hug. "Evening." Richard felt good today.

Dean chuckled at him. "I kept dinner warm for you. You're going to need it, after the strenuous workout Lee put you through."

"Strenuous," Richard repeated with a laugh, his chin resting on Dean's shoulder. He looked around for what food they'd be having tonight. His turn to cook would be tomorrow, and he had just the idea already. "Oh, you know how to make things sound saucier than they really are. How was your day? Did you have lots of customers?"

'Well, why not?" Dean smiled warmly. "I do, after all, live my love life vicariously through you." He puttered around in the cabinet where they kept their glasses. "Today Gwen McTavish told me that her husband is the chief of police, and that he might want my help on a case."

Richard was about to protest that it wasn't anything big with Lee, more of an accident really--as far as running into each other in the men's room, Richard insistently and quite against his own will seeking out eye contact in the mirror when they both washed their hands and that the one spark of electricity that passed between them had somehow ended up with both of them in a stall, Lee on his knees and Richard's trousers only down far enough for Lee to take what he wanted--as far as that could be an accident. He didn't protest. Instead Richard's good mood sank and he pressed his forehead against Dean's shoulder blade.

"Tell me you didn't."

"Well," Dean said apprehensively, "I didn't tell her no. Apparently, they're really stymied over this one case. Desperate. I would like to try to help, if I can. The least I can do is try."

"But you know how it ended last times you tried." Richard closed his eyes. "I know you mean well with those police cases. I'm just not fond of any of them. If they can't explain it, it's always wrong in their eyes. People who need comfort, that's the kind of people you want to be around, those who just lost somebody. Because they're grateful. I don't want to see you get into trouble because of some cop who uses your gift and then gets frightened." He slowly let go of Dean and sat at the table. "They always betray you."

"Gwen seems to think I can get away with working anonymously," Dean said in his defence. "I mean, if her husband is as low-key as she is...it should be all right. You know me. I can't not try," he pulled a casserole from where it was warming in the oven. "It's something I can do for the families of the victims at the very least."

Richard knew. Of course he knew. Dean was honest to a fault. For someone with that kind of gift, he would have expected him to get used to the negative attention and shy away from it, but the possibility of the positive, of using it to do good, it kept appealing to his former partner. "Anonymously?" he wondered, "Are you sure? Can I be there when you do the reading for this guy? You know I'm selfish when you get like this. I can't stand to see you go through that again."

He also didn't want to consider having to leave Lee behind so soon, but Dean was still more important to him. Richard would if they had to. He reached over for the cupboard and took out a plate, gratefully offering it to Dean for the food.

"You could be there, if it's convenient for you," Dean acquiesced, "but it's not necessary. My work speaks for itself. I'll convince him I'm legit. I promise, Rich, if the heat gets to be too much, I'll leave the kitchen."

When Richard handed him the plate, a rather salacious image of Richard and Lee in a bathroom stall came to his mind. He blushed uncontrollably. "You are so bad," he smiled at his former love. "The restroom? Really?"

His flatmate looked away, equally flushed upon remembering that afternoon. "I guess it just...happened? I mean it though, so don't change the subject. I'll be there if you want me to be. Just plan the appointment after four o'clock and I promise you, I'll be there." He dug into his food quickly to distract himself. If Dean hadn't been able to tell so far, then he really didn't need to know he had just jerked himself off to the memory in the bathroom.

"I'm happy for you, Richard," Dean said quickly. "You know I am. I wish I could find love so effortlessly. It's so much easier to trust someone when you don't learn things from holding their hand."

Their telephone rang at that moment. Dean reached over to pick it up. "Hello? Yes...this is Dean."

"This is Detective Graham McTavish," a voice said on the other end of the line. "My wife speaks very highly of you. As she may have told you, we have a very challenging case that's confounding even our best men. I'd like to come over, tomorrow if possible, and see what you're all about."

"I have the afternoon free," Dean told him, giving the officer his address. "Bring some items you'd like me to read. Pick a few things you know everything about...and some that you know nothing about it. I'll try to help, if I can."

There was silence on the other end and Dean knew it was make or break time. "Fine," the voice said at last, brusquely. "I'll be bringing along someone from my forensic team. He knows the evidence vault like the back of his hand."

"I look forward to it. I'll be free between one and five," Dean told him. "Come any time."

After hanging up, he turned to Richard. "Tomorrow. He's coming tomorrow. Are you free in the afternoon?"

"Tomorrow?" Richard's mouth let go of the fork, dismayed. "That's fast. You know I'll be there until the end of class. Maybe if they show up after four. Either way, I'll do my best to be here as soon as I can, alright?" He waited until Dean joined him at the table. "Ring me anyway when they're here. So the chief and his wife, right?"

"It's Detective McTavish...that's the chief," Dean told him, taking a drink of water, "and he said he's bringing along one of his forensics guys. Someone intimately acquainted with the evidence. They're going to do all they can do disprove me. And they're going to hate it when they can't."

"Dean, that's not anonymous."

"Neither is the sex you had in the men's room."

Richard threw his hands up, exasperated. "It was a blowjob, Dean, and it has nothing to do with this. You said it'd be anonymous. Now there's this evidence guy coming along. Do you know what will happen? You'll be in the room with two people unwilling to believe you."

"They'll believe me when they leave," Dean said solemnly. "You know they will. Even if they don't want to admit it. They'll believe me, and they'll call me back."

"And it will not be anonymous, meaning they'll use your ability and the first chance they get, they'll turn it against you. Please, if you have to do this, then do it just with the one guy. Call him back, tell him you'll meet the other guy later. A second meeting--anything. Or have him bring his wife with him. She's nice."

"She _is_ nice," Dean reminded him, "and she likes me. She wouldn't throw me to the wolves."

"Richard," he put his hand over the older man's, "I won't ruin this for you. I promise. We are never moving again."

Richard simply leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "That's not why I'm worried," he said quietly. "I just don't want to see you hurt." By anybody. Richard would pick Dean as a friend over Lee or anyone else as a lover any day. They knew each other too well for that. "Call her. Ask her if she is comfortable coming along. Don't let yourself be outnumbered from the start."

\- - - - -

Richard was reluctant to leave home the following morning. He spent as long as he could at the kitchen table, watching Dean walk around and go about his business, until it was impossible to stretch it any longer.

"You'll be alright?" he asked at the door as he straightened his woollen coat. "Call me when they're here, got it?"

"It'll be fine," Dean told him again, smoothing down the fabric at Richard's shoulder, even though it didn't need it. "And I'll call, I promise, soon as they're here. Just promise me you won't come charging in here all alpha male and riling them up."

"Me? I don't know what you're talking about."

How many times had Richard gone and done exactly that, with Dean being both visibly amused and annoyed at him every single time? 

Richard kissed him on the cheek--a habit that he needed to learn to suppress--and was off, leaving Dean in an empty house with Richard's lazy jazz still playing on the background.

Dean watched out the window as Richard climbed into his sedan and drove out their driveway. He smiled fondly. Dean didn't mind the moving, not so much. As long as he was with Richard, he felt at home. What he did mind was disappointing Richard, or worse yet, endangering him.

That, he simply couldn't do again.

\- - - - - 

"Are you ready for this, Turner?" Graham McTavish said to the man in his passenger seat. "This could get a bit...weird."

"You've said that, yes." Aidan looked out the window instead of at his chief. On his lap was a small box with some smaller objects, each one bagged and tagged. They were going to unzip these just for a stranger to run his hands across. It was a good thing this guy didn't work in the field, Aidan thought, because the amount of fingerprints on a crime scene would be disastrous. "Tell me again why you believe this to bring us further in the case. We've all examined these items for weeks. There is nothing there."

"My wife," Graham didn't look at Aidan, but rather at the street ahead of him, while he spoke, "insists he has a gift....a gift for touching objects and knowing things about him. I, of course, wish to be convinced. And I must admit, I have a very morbid sense of curiosity. You've brought some items that you're one hundred percent sure of, right?"

"Absolutely. Items that he can't know unless he's been there himself." It was a waste of Aidan's time and potential, to be asked along on a visit to a psychic. McTavish only got him to come after pointing out that the lab hadn't come up with something usable for nearly a week and he had kept mentioning he needed new evidence, and so it wasn't as if he had better things to do. Aidan should have kept his mouth shut.

He scoffed at the sign. "The Bloodhound, really?"

Graham sighed, "Yeah, I know. It's cheesy as all hell, isn't it? Don't worry," he said, turning off the ignition. "Gwen assured me he doesn't actually sniff anything."

From inside, where he was sitting by the window using the computer, Dean heard the sound of car doors. He shot off a quick text to Richard after looking out to see a police car in his driveway.

_They're here. Two officers, no uniforms. One's cute. :)_

Then the doorbell rang.

 _Hang in there,_ replied Richard almost at once, _I'll be there as fast as I can. I hope you're not talking about your customer's husband._ It was ten to four and he was already on the bus home. It would only take him fifteen more minutes, but customers could be fast when readings were simple.

Graham and Aidan waited for Dean to open. Graham extended a hand at once, meaning to make a good impression despite his lack of trust in this turning out to be something useful--if only for his wife.

Aidan next to him had less reservations. He shook Dean's leather-clad hand all right, but he didn't bother with a smile or an inclination to kindness. "You're Mr. O'Gorman?"

"I am," the blond smiled, "but please, call me Dean."

He led the two of them into what could only be described as his office. A round table, suitable for four, dominated the room, the walls of which were decorated with old circus posters of freak show and fortune teller acts.

"You don't have a crystal ball, do you?" Detective McTavish asked.

Dean chuckled. "No. I assure you, they're both real. Come, sit, anywhere you like."

Aidan frowned at the word joke. He took a seat at the chair closest to the door and wrapped his jacket over the back, folding his hands. He couldn't help but look at the interior of the office and wonder if this man took himself serious, if he compared his vocation with that of bearded ladies and bald giants.

"I assume you've been told why we are here," he said. "Are you sure you can be of assistance?"

"I'm not _sure,_ no," Dean set him straight, "I'll know for sure after you test me. You do plan to test me, I assume? What have you brought with you?"

Aidan put the basket onto the empty chair next to him, waited for both of them to sit down, and offered the first item. It was a paper towel, blotched with dry blood--not human blood, but pig's. Dean could touch it without harming any evidence. "This is from an old case that we solved. Please, tell me everything you can deduct from this." From the look on his face, it was obvious that Aidan expected that to be nothing.

Dean looked down at the bloodied paper towel, not terribly thrilled that the first item they handed him was covered with blood. He slipped off his gloves, eyes never leaving Aidan's face.

He could tell already that it wasn't Gwen's husband who was going to be the hard sell, but this young technician. Dean took the paper towel in his left hand, and put his right hand over top of it. He closed his eyes, expecting to see a grisly murder behind them. A moment later, he scoffed.

"This blood," he frowned, "it's not from a person. It's animal. I don't know what kind. It came from a butcher shop. White cases....walls painted...blue. Light blue. I think it was dead before it even got to the shop. Is this a joke?"

Aidan shared a look with Graham. It couldn't be a coincidence. And this guy...he was fast. Aidan had been ready to banish his hoohah to the land of the dead, and frankly had expected him to take at least ten minutes fishing for clues from them using vague referrals. But they hadn't spoken a word. How did he do that?

"Not a joke," Graham spoke up. "This was a butcher's kid's. We found it on his body." He nodded to Aidan, who offered the second piece of evidence. This one belonged to an elder lady who had fallen in front of a train. Everyone thought it was suicide--her husband had died not too long before--until it turned out she had been pushed.

Dean accepted from Aidan a ring with a large diamond setting. It was clearly vintage, but still very lovely. He closed his hands over the cold metal and was suddenly on a subway platform. _The Metro,_ they called it here in D.C.. He could smell the train exhaust and the vestiges of a spring rain.

He looked down at his own hands. They were old, riddled with brown age spots and blue veins. He was wearing the ring on his left hand. The train was coming. Suddenly, he felt a foot hook under his ankle and a less-than-gentle shove to his shoulder. He had poor balance and even poorer coordination. He was old and tottering.

He turned to look behind him, where a tall, red-haired man was standing, watching grimly, as he teetered into the path of the oncoming subway train.

"Jerry!" the name came from his lips as he fell from the platform ledge. The train roared towards him.

Dean released the ring from his grasp just before the impact. He was sweating and felt more than a little sick.

"Jerry pushed her," he said weakly, before he pushed away from the table and ran to the bathroom to be sick.

In the stunned silence, Graham turned to Aidan and muttered, "Well, fuck me."

Richard thankfully chose that moment to enter their apartment. He saw Dean rush by in the direction of the bathroom and knew at once what must have happened. He undid his coat and put his case near the stand, before choosing to knock on Dean's office and walking in.

"...Hi," he said, apologetically. "I'm sorry about my friend. He'll be back shortly. Can I..can I get you something to drink while you wait?"

Graham introduced himself and Aidan to Richard. His mouth had gone quite dry since Dean's revelation and so he welcomed the chance at a drink.

"Anything wet will do," he said to Dean's housemate. "Aidan?"

Aidan merely nodded, and Richard departed to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry about that," Dean returned, looking a shade paler. "It was pretty intense, what happened to her. I hope Jerry went to jail."

"How does it work?"

While Aidan was supposed to only be there for support and his knowledge about the evidence, he couldn't help but ask. It made no sense to him. This man used no clues, no context to deduct things. It wasn't possible.

Graham interrupted with more tact. "We put him behind bars. Are you okay, Dean? You look a little shaken."

"I am," Dean admitted, "shaken, I mean. I felt what she did. His ankle tripping her, the push at her back...and falling, watching the Metro rushing at me. My heart's still pounding. It's like I was there."

He turned to Aidan, whose analytical gaze was unnerving him. "I don't know how it works. I've been able to do it since I can remember. I touch stuff and I see movies in my head. Some are more clear than others. More details, I mean. Like, I don't know the name of the woman this ring belonged to...but I saw the man who pushed her. He had red hair, and his name was Jerry. Other times, I just get vague impressions, which can be very frustrating."

He took a sip of the soda Richard had sat in front of him and smiled gratefully. "Would you like me to try something more personal? Something from one of you?"

Aidan declined at once. He wasn't interested in unveiling things he didn't want uncovered by this man until he knew how he worked. "Who's that guy?" he asked as he pointed over his shoulder at Richard, who happened to enter just at that moment and smiled at him like he didn't notice--Aidan was sure that he did.

"There you go," he offered the both of them a glass of water. "I'll leave you to it, unless I can be of assistance?"

Graham thought about the offer. He finally grabbed his wallet, which had, as far as he knew, no special memories or events connected to it. It was just a simple, meaningless object. "I'm curious what you'll get from this."

"That's Richard Armitage, my roommate," Dean told the serious young man. "He's a professor at Strayer. We've been friends for years. And, he wants to make sure you two aren't going to hurt me. He's protective like that."

He accepted the wallet from Graham. It looked well worn.

"Are you sure?" he asked the detective. "It's obviously been around awhile. It could tell me things you might not want to hear...or have him hear," he inclined his head in Aidan's direction.

Aidan shrugged. He didn't mind. Graham however watched him for a sign for a few seconds longer before nodding in Dean's direction. "We wouldn't hurt you," he said. "Gwen told me about your previous experiences with justice. In fact, she had me vow 'not to be an ass'. That's a quote."

Aidan snorted.

"Anyway, I know my colleague would disagree, but if what you say is right, I would like your opinion on an open case."

Aidan's head whipped around to Graham. "What?"

"I'd be happy to help, if I can," Dean found himself liking Aidan less and less, but of course, his reaction wasn't unusual. "Let's see what I can get from this, then," he smiled gently, taking Graham's wallet into his hands.

Instantly his head was filled with scenes. Graham eating breakfast with Gwen and daughters, watching a soccer game and cheering like a maniac, sharp pain in his stomach. "You have an ulcer...or some sort of acid reflux problem," he told Graham. He chuckled at what he saw next. "Before work today, one of your daughters...the one with dark hair...she stole five dollars from this wallet while you were taking a shower."

He handed the wallet back. "She has a sweet tooth. She buys donuts after school."

"She buys them from my money, does she?" While Graham wasn't pleased that she took the money unsolicited, she always brought a full box back whenever she did, to share with everyone at home. "It seems I will need to have a talk with her when I get home. Very well, you weren't wrong. Aidan..."

Aidan reluctantly pushed forward an item from the case. "Careful with that," he warned. "It's very fragile." Before him on the table lay a desert rose.

The flower was dried and very brittle. Dean was afraid to pick it up. He did so, gently, by the stem, and lay it across his palm. He saw nothing for a few moments, so he closed his eyes and carefully lay his other hand over the flower.

"It's from her funeral," he told the two men. "It was her favorite flower. Hard to find around these parts, but it was the last thing he bought for her, so he didn't mind the expense." He took a deep breath, and stopped. "I'm not getting anything else. No names or faces. I can smell candles, hear people crying. A funeral. Everything's unclear, like it's seen through a child's eyes. A child's memory of sensations but not faces."

"The last thing he bought for her? You mean, he was at the funeral?" That was new information. Graham didn't recall any children at the funeral either. He sat back, took a drink, and breathed in deeply. "I'm afraid that doesn't tell us anything, but it's definitely a different conclusion from our own observations. Dean, and I know I can't officially ask this of you, but would you be interested in being a consultant for us? This case, we've been trying to make sense of it all and we just can't--" Aidan's jaw clenched, "--and new insight would most certainly be welcome."

"I'm sorry you've run up against a wall," Dean said truthfully to the pair of them. "It must be awfully frustrating. I'll do what I can to help, as long as I'm not stepping on any toes. However, I get the feeling that Aidan here isn't very happy about it," he observed. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Aidan spoke up coolly while he recollected the evidence to put in the basket again.

"Great," smiled Graham, reaching for a handshake instead. "We'll be in touch to sort out the arrangement. I have to admit, I came here expecting something different than what I ended up getting. Sorry about that."

Dean slipped the leather glove back on his right hand before shaking Graham's hand, then a very reluctant Aidan's.

"If you want to stick around, talk some more about what I do, Aidan, you can," Dean told him. "I know it's a lot to swallow--especially when you're of a very scientific mindset. It took me a long time to come to terms with it myself."

He had to admit, he was disappointed at Aidan's reaction. Aidan was a very good-looking man, and he would have welcomed a chance to get to know him better. Now, to Aidan, he was nothing but a freak. Worse yet, a freak who might upstage him at work.

Aidan's eyes lingered on the soft leather covering Dean's hand. It felt like a small victory.


	3. Lunch, and Other Disasters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean shows up at the precinct and is invited by Aidan to do a little field work. Things don't necessarily go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for your support. If you spot any grammar/spelling errors, please point them out to us. We aren't always as diligent as we should be during the beta process.

Aidan didn't want to give in. He felt like, if he showed interest now and stayed behind to talk to Dean, his own credibility would suffer. At the same time he couldn't help but wonder. "You've had this all your life? And it's just your hands? Or do other parts also respond? It doesn't make sense, if it's connected to skin, to only be in your palms. If you were to take a look at the underlying anatomy...I don't understand. You're transferring memories through touch. How? Electricity?"

"I wish I knew," Dean replied with a sad smile. "You're asking good questions though. Better than the ones I asked myself. Of course, mine were mostly filled with self-pity."

He was happy to have Aidan alone for a moment as Graham took their glasses to the kitchen. 

"And yeah," Dean said, slipping on the second glove, "it's just my hands. Life would be unbearable otherwise. Would you be interested in maybe studying me? Apart from what I might be able to do to help your case? I've always wanted to have someone scientifically try to figure out how it works."

Aidan looked him over with that scrutinizing look. "You mean, you are offering to have me put electrodes on your skin and try to read you?" Hell yes, did that sound appealing. Aidan was a man with a heart made for the explicable, and while he didn't appreciate this Dean character giving Graham more than he had been able to give him in concrete deductions himself, Aidan saw this psychic as a peculiar experiment. If nothing else, he could try to prove him a fraud. "Isn't that like giving your trade secrets away for free?"

"Uh..." Dean smiled, "well, yes, I guess that's what I'm offering. I've had some difficult experiences with the police in the past. I won't lie about that. But maybe, if you feel like I'm of use to you scientifically..." he smiled. "And I don't have any secrets. It's not magic. It just happens. I hope to prove that to you. More than that, if you can figure out how it works, maybe you can figure out how to make it stop."

"You want to stop it?"

That was worth the effort. Aidan clasped Dean's hand again and shook it. "Let's see what the chief can arrange in terms of that. I'll be seeing you." 

Aidan joined Graham and soon they said their goodbyes, leaving Dean with Richard, who smiled knowingly. "Oh, don't say it. I can read you like a book."

"He's really cute," Dean admitted, "when he's not scowling. Reminds me of you when we met. Well, except you were a bit more mopey than scowly. This one...I don't know," Dean smiled. "I just like the way he looks." Dean felt something akin to hope blossom in his chest. "I think that went well."

Richard handed him a glass of Coke and kissed him on the cheek, something of a habit between them that he had nonetheless refrained from in the company of the two policemen. "He is handsome," he commented. "Not too happy about the attitude though. That guy is going to be a handful, mark my words. So what did you agree to?"

"Something I feel will be mutually beneficial," Dean told him. "I help the precinct with their case, and Aidan is allowed to study _me_. Maybe he can find out what makes me tick. You know I'm curious. He seemed genuinely intrigued. And I'd really like to see if I can make him smile."

\- - - - -

Two days later, Dean showed up at the police station to meet with Aidan. It was clear by the way people treated him that Aidan and Graham hadn't shared his abilities with the rest of the officers. Dean liked that.

Aidan led him through the large, bustling open room of the main precinct to a small, comfortable office near the back, which opened up to a spotless laboratory.

A slender, brown-haired man in glasses sat at the second desk in the room, leaning with great concentration over the open folder on his blotter.

"Adam Brown, this is Dean O'Gorman," Aidan introduced him. Adam was one of the few people Aidan could tolerate. Under that quiet exterior was a clever man who knew what he was talking about, when he talked. Adam was one of the brightest people around. It was for that trait that Aidan allowed them to meet properly instead of just brushing past Adam, like he had done with most of his other co-workers. "You'll want to work with this guy. He's good at what he does."

Adam blinked and looked up from his work. When he realized they had company, he quickly extended his hand. "Hi. You're--ah, I see! I'll be looking forward to working with you too, Dean. How's your first day so far? Lots of new faces, right?"

Dean reached to shake Adam's hand, noting the curious lift of Adam's eyebrow when he saw the leather gloves Dean wore. "Hi, Adam. No, just you two so far. And that's all right," Dean confessed. "I'm here to work with the two of you, it seems." Adam's eyes followed him like some curious new species of bug. "Does Adam know who I am?" Dean asked Aidan. "Why I'm here?" 

"Nobody except for me and the chief," Aidan replied. They walked past another department and Aidan inclined his head when a man he later labeled as Stephen Fry nodded at him. "Runs Narcotics," was his minute explanation. It didn't take them long before they got back to Adam, where Aidan left him. "We'll be your direct colleagues for some time to come. You answer to me. In the case that I am not around, you answer to Chief McTavish. I'll leave you here. Adam can guide you through evidence regulations."

"Aid," Adam shook his head, "I don't--I mean, you're here to help him on his first day. I'm hardly the person for that."

Dean tried not to let the hurt he was feeling show on his face, but Aidan's curt dismissal cut him to the quick. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly to Aidan. "I don't want to be a hindrance. I want to be the opposite, in fact. I was hoping you could show me the ropes. I'm a very quick study. _Then_ you can ditch me...all right?" He put a hand on Aidan's forearm. "Show me the procedure you want me to follow. How you want me to document, and so on."

Aidan looked at the hand, then back up. "I'm on field duty today." It was a challenge. "That means I'm here to make sure you'll be all right here, then be outside for the rest of the day. Adam is highly capable of showing you the ropes, especially considering there is little you have to do but voice what you see. Besides, you'll only be here three days a week."

"Why do I get the feeling you're going to make an effort to be gone on those three days?" Dean hadn't meant for it to come out sounding as petulant as it did. "God, I'm--I'm sorry," he back-pedaled. "That didn't come out sounding quite as I'd hoped. I was just really looking forward to working with you, Aidan."

"Well, get in line," Aidan shrugged.

Truth be told, he didn't know how to treat this man. Everything about him infuriated him. Dean's mere presence threatened the things Aidan was good at--deduction, a sharp set of eyes and an unequalled method of questioning the right things. Dean just had to touch an object to know all that and more.

At the same time, Aidan wanted to study him. He longed to know how it worked. But what if he couldn't find anything? What if there really was no physical cause? "Very well. Pack your bags, Dean. Adam, could you explain these things to him when we get back? He wants to come with me."

"I--" Dean looked back and forth between the two men, "I never said--" but he halted at the stubborn set of Aidan's mouth and shoulders. "Okay, then," he smiled. "Field work it is. It was nice meeting you, Adam. I look forward to talking to you when we return."

Dean wanted to bury his head in his hands and die of embarrassment.

Little did he know, seeing that emotion greatly pleased Aidan, who slipped into a leather jacket, hooked his badge on the inside of it and slid his hands into his pockets. He didn't ask Dean anything while he walked, nor did he wait for him to follow. He just expected him to be there. Five minutes later had them entering a silver sedan, recently washed and waxed, and driving to the area where the last victim had been found, all the while listening to Aidan's music of choice, which turned out to be easy top 40 songs.

"Her name was Elizabeth," he said. "The daughter's. Elizabeth's mother killed her by severing her jugular—biting it. There is a big chance we won't find anything today, but it might be as good a place as any to have you start."

"I have to be honest with you," Dean told him, "I did read about the latest Vigilante's victims in the paper. It's impossible not to. Folks called this lady The Vampire? Her daughter's murder was solved years ago. We're here to solve The Vampire's murder...am I right?" Dean looked out the window as Aidan drove the car into a very affluent neighborhood.

"That's correct. Just so you know, me and at least Adam and the chief are not fond of the name Vigilante. It sounds like someone is taking matters into their own hands where no justice previously was. I know she got out early on good behavior, but there are no signs she would have done it again. We've actually got two cases today, but we'll start with the crime scene of that one."

"This seems like such a nice neighborhood," Dean commented as they pulled up to an empty house in the middle of what was clearly an expensive development. "But I guess no one wants to buy a home where someone was killed...except in bad horror movies," he smiled, getting out of the car.

Aidan mostly observed Dean after those words. He locked the car and walked up to the house where, surprisingly, he rang the doorbell.

An old man opened the door. He looked them over. "Detective Turner?"

"That'll be me. Can we come in?"

"Please," the man said and offered his hand in welcome. Aidan took it and nodded for Dean to do the same.

"Hello," Dean shook the man's hand, his gloves well in place. "I'm Dean O'Gorman, assisting Aidan today. Were you related to the people who used to live here?"

"She was my daughter," the man looked down. "I lost my granddaughter to a tragedy, and now I lost my only daughter as well. Please, if there's anything that can help you find out who did this. Look wherever you like, dear sirs." He closed the door behind them.

Aidan didn't understand how Dean had not seen the connection. He shook his head. Their pictures were still on the wall. "Come," he said, "I'll show you where it happened."

"I'm so sorry for what you've been through," Dean told the old man. "I can't imagine the grief you're feeling."

There came no response but a curt nod. Instead the man turned and led them to a room upstairs with pink walls that could have only belonged to nine-year-old Elizabeth, whereupon he sauntered down to the kitchen for coffee. Dean wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he was relieved that there was no blood present, no indication that a murder had happened here...at least, not a visible one. He slipped off his gloves and put them in his coat pocket. Not much later, the old man returned with a tray bearing two cups of coffee, milk and sugar.

"What were Elizabeth's favorite toys?" he asked the grandfather. "Something she would have played with the day she," _was killed by her mother_ , "died?"

"The teddy bear," the man's eyes drifted to the princess bed in the corner and the cream-colored teddy bear that was neatly placed next to the pillow. "She loved the teddy bear. Mr. Stokes, she called it. I don't know how you drink your coffees," he apologized, "I hope this is okay." he placed the tray on a cabinet and moved to fetch Dean the teddy bear, carrying it with care. "There you go."

Aidan watched him closely as he took the plush toy in his bare hands.

Dean sat down on the floor next to Elizabeth's bed, the teddy bear in his left hand. It was much more girly than the teddy bear he'd had as a lad, he noted with a soft smile, putting his right hand over the bear's plush stomach.

"Mommy!" a little girl's shrill voice filled his head. "Mommy? What's wrong?"

He looked up and to the left. Aidan and the old man were gone. In the doorway stood a woman in her mid-thirties, her dark hair pulled back into a pony-tail. Although she was very pretty, her features were distorted in a mask of hatred.

"Mommy?" Dean felt panic rising.

"Kill you!" the woman charged at him and he felt her talon-like fingernails digging into his shoulders as she grabbed him and pulled him upright. A small tea table and miniature tea set scattered across the floor and crunched under their feet. 

He felt himself being shoved onto the bed, and the last thing he saw before a searing pain in his neck was Genevieve's horrible, horrible grimace bearing down on him.

He dropped the bear with a gasp.

Aidan was next to him in a beat. "What is it? What did you see?" He crossed eyes with the old man, who looked astounded and not a little frightened. "Come," he guided him out, "it's best if you don't see this."

"What is wrong with him?" the man wondered while continuing to reach up and look over Aidan's shoulder--which his decreasing height did not permit him. "Is he hurt?"

"No, wait...please," Dean got clumsily to his feet and followed the pair of them. "I need...er...do you have something that belonged to Genevieve? Jewelry she wore regularly, or an item she might have used on a daily basis?" He told Aidan, "Genevieve was not herself when she killed her daughter," then turned back to the old man, "but I suppose you knew that already."

Aidan didn't. They had always assumed that something traumatic must have happened for her to snap, but nobody had a theory good enough for it to be considered more than just that--a theory. "What do you think it could have been?" he asked.

Elizabeth's grandfather gestured for Dean to follow him to a different room, where he allowed Dean any item that he wanted, still befuddled by what had just happened. "This was the master bedroom--hers. I haven't touched anything since what happened."

"Well, I don't want to throw out any theories without knowing more," Dean quickly said. "I have a master's degree in Psychology, however, and I have spent a lot of time studying the healthy and unhealthy human mind. I'm going to guess that she might have been on some medications." He turned to Genevieve's father. "Are they around here somewhere?"

He inclined his head.

Dean slipped the gloves back on his hands when the older man left the room. "I think, maybe," Dean said to Aidan, "she might have been schizophrenic. I can tell you more when I see her meds. But we're here to find out who killed Genevieve, aren't we?"

"We believe that their deaths may be linked. Considering you know little about the case so far, I would see what you can figure out on your own." Aidan stuffed his hands in his pockets coolly, not wanting to appear friendly in any way.

"Ah," the old man walked away and returned with a small bottle. "Just the one. Is this any use? I'm sorry, all of the other medication was flushed down the toilet just before she did that--that horrible thing." His eyes teared up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't--oh, don't mind me."

"I didn't catch your name," Dean said to the older man, putting a gentle hand on his arm. Truth was, Aidan hadn't bothered to tell him. Maybe he didn't even know. Personal interactions didn't seem like a high priority to the detective. 

"It's Tom," he smiled a little shaken. "Mansfield. I'm sorry, I didn't tell because I thought you both knew. Because you're with the police, you see."

"It's his first day on the job," Aidan commented carelessly, all the while examining the bottle. "He's still learning. Is it okay if I take a picture of this for further investigation, sir?"

"Tom," Dean smiled, accepting the bottle of pills into his gloved hand. "Nice to meet you properly." He shot a scolding glance at Aidan for undermining his credibility. "And I recently relocated to the area, but I'm not entirely new at...well, at what I do. Your daughter, she heard voices, didn't she? Voices telling her horrible things."

Tom nodded. "Yes," he swallowed convulsively. "It drove her quite mad, as you've seen."

Dean glanced down at the bottle of Olanzapine and saw it had only been refilled in the past month. She was still taking them then, when she died.

"The pills controlled it, though, as they should," Dean smiled gently at the older man, who was visibly becoming affected. "I'm sorry to make you talk about this, but it's information like this that can help us find the person who killed Genevieve. I also sometimes learn things just by touching them, Tom. If I could just sit quietly for a few moments with this bottle, I'd appreciate it."

"Why, of course." Dean could tell Tom was curious and mildly intrigued by what he just said, but he had tried a lot of things already, and he wasn't as foolish as to discard anything so soon.

That left Dean alone in the room with Aidan. Aidan let him do his thing while he looked around for other objects that might be important. "There's a pattern," he said absently. "All of the victims lately, they've committed murders before. We call it the Vigilante, but we have no proof that they're truly linked, aside from that detail. Whoever does it, he is very good. I don't expect today to give us any results. We're mostly here to check it off the list, narrow down the list of useful locations."

But Dean barely heard most of what Aidan said. Already he had slipped off his gloves and sat down at Genevieve's desk. Holding the bottle between his hands, he closed his eyes and lowered his head as if in prayer.

"The girl must die!" a voice hissed near his ear. It certainly wasn't Aidan. He was well across the room. "Tonight." The voice sounded distorted--a hoarse whisper through a mouthful of nails, and yet, clear as a bell.

He flashed to an office, surrounded by colleagues, at a conference table. The voice howled and a mug of coffee was upended. Flashed to driving home on the beltway--listening to music on the radio, which turned suddenly into the commanding, demonic voice once again. The car swerved towards the guard rail, only to be pulled back into traffic at the last moment. Flashed to Genevieve's bed, which she no longer shared with Elizabeth's father. Flashed to being awakened over and over and over again by that horrible voice telling her to kill Lizzie. He felt sick, but he had to keep going.

"Hey, crazy lady…" a voice, which he felt he might recognize, if only he could see its owner, murmured in his ear. "Baby-killer…" it said. "I'm here to rid the world of you, once and for all." He was tugged, one arm tight around his waist and another around his throat, nearly cutting off his breath, then thrust into a confined space--a trunk of a car. The lid slammed down. He smelled something foul and soon his lungs were on fire and he simply couldn't breathe at all.

When Dean opened his eyes, he was on the floor next to the chair he'd been sitting in. 

Aidan sat down in front of him and steadied him with two hands. "You've really got to stop that habit of throwing yourself on or off things. People might think. Tell me, what is it you saw?"

"He ambushed her and dragged her to his car," Dean whispered, eyes wild and trembling with delayed panic. "Threw her in the trunk. There was something--something _toxic_ piping in. That's how she died. How they all died. Everything else he did to them afterwards. And I...I heard his voice. The Vigilante, I heard his voice."

"You heard--" Aidan stopped in front of him. "How did he sound? It was a man? And the car, what did the car look like?" He had thought that perhaps here, on the crime scene, Dean would lose it. Perhaps he chickened out--he wouldn't be the first one with such a gruesome double homicide in front of him--or perhaps he would forget how to make up stories. Regardless of that, most of the things Dean said were only in the police file, while some details were brand new. Aidan grudgingly had no other choice but to believe him. "Anything you say could be of help right now."

Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus. "He sounded...I don't know... _younger_ , I suppose. But also as if he were trying to make his voice different, deeper, more threatening. As if he weren't using his actual voice. I didn't see the car. He dragged her to it--backwards and tossed her in the trunk. I--I think it might have happened in a parking garage. The abduction. During the day, but there were no others around. I didn't see anyone else."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Aidan. "That isn't much, is it? I'm sorry, Aidan."

Aidan pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, it's not." He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the thought that if he only put Dean in front of the right evidence, they would have this guy in no time. Which was a good thing, except it would make himself look like an utter fool in comparison. Aidan forced himself to think of any new victims first. That was what was important--preventing another murder. Not his pride.

So why was it so damn hard?

"He wore a mask," he sighed. "We caught it on camera. It's impossible to get any details from that footage, but we know for a fact that he did drag her backwards and it was in the parking lot. Is there anything else you want to see? Otherwise, I suggest we leave this man alone with his grief."

"What I do--what I see--it's not science, and it's certainly not exact," Dean reminded him. "I know you don't believe me. Not really. Not yet," Dean said softly. "I wouldn't either if I were you. Maybe, if you could let me..." he reached for Aidan's hand. 

Aidan withdrew his hand. "Glove," he reminded. "I believe you enough. It's impossible to know all those details without having been brought up to date with the file. I believe you, I just don't understand you." He straightened himself and looked around the room. "Anything else you want to try? Or you want to try the so far useless vault of evidence at the station?"

Dean put his hands into his pockets self-consciously. "How about lunch? I'm famished. Are you?" he shrugged. "Then back to evidence. I feel bad being here and bothering Tom."

"Yeah...lunch."

Dean couldn't possibly know that when Aidan drove them to a small diner and held the door for him, Aidan wasn't interested in the food so much as he was interested in the waiter--they had recently broken up--to demonstrate that he was over him. Dean wouldn't know, Aidan assumed, as long as he wore his gloves. He handed him a menu over the table and wriggled out of his jacket. "I recommend the croque monsieur. It's good."

"That sounds a little fancy for my tastes. I might just have some soup and salad." Dean smiled nervously, noting that Aidan seemed very distracted. "Are we meeting someone?"

"Not at all," Aidan took back the menu and decided on a croque monsieur for himself, as well as a mushroom soup. He eyed the black-haired waiter that came over, took their order and kept his eyes on Aidan for a very long time. Aidan smiled until he left. Then he said to Dean, "Not a word about this to Graham. We shouldn't be out for lunch during working hours."

"Well," Dean cleared his throat and took a sip of water, "I don't have to take off my gloves to know that you and that waiter know one another. He's good looking. Old flame?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Crap. How did he know? Aidan wasn't that obvious, was he? "I used to know him, is all."

Dean didn't answer for a moment, afraid to test the bond of the tenuous relationship they barely had. Instead, he decided to offer some information. "That man you met at my house? My roommate, Richard? He's my ex. Well, years back, we had a relationship. We're still the best of friends, though. It _is_ possible."

"Then I'm going to assume you two didn't sleep together after you broke up." 

Aidan blanched. He hadn't just said that. When their orders arrived with a godsend timing, he snatched the plate out of the waiter's hands and kept his eyes on the dish until he was out of sight. "I thought you two were still together, by the way," he muttered. "You looked chummy."

"We couldn't be any closer," Dean confessed, "as friends, I mean. He's like a brother to me. We've had one another through some of the worst times. And," he blushed, taking a gulp from his water as if to hide behind it, "I'd be lying if I said we didn't--occasionally--fall back into old behavior. But we always, _always_ encourage one another romantically. He's more fortunate than I am in that department. I mean, have you seen him?" 

"Mh. Well, he's not bad." It was impossible, after such a confession, not to think of Richard and wonder what he looked like while having sex. Aidan twisted in his seat--oh, it was a more than fine image, though hardly decent. "Sounds to me like you're not entirely like brothers. So you like men, then?"

Dean nodded. "I mean, I'm not exactly prolific in the relationship department, if you know what I mean. But yeah, I like guys," he chuckled, "given the chance. My hands...I mean, it kinda makes things complicated."

"How do you even do that? You still keep your gloves on during sex?" Richard, Aidan figured, must have been into that.

"Whoa," Dean's eyes grew wide, "you like the hard questions. Initially I do, yeah. Otherwise, the things I see can be...well, _distracting_ from the purpose, you know? It's kinda hard to maintain, _you know_ , when you have an image of someone's beloved childhood pet playing in your head."

Dean was relieved when their sodas showed up. He locked eyes with the water and smiled in an assuring _I'm not going to molest your ex-boyfriend_ way.

Aidan wanted him to look exactly the opposite. Though in all honesty, he wanted Richard opposite him more. Between the both, Richard was perhaps not the most attractive one, not to Aidan's tastes, but he was the safest one. "Something tells me you don't usually have that happen, taking your gloves off. Do you--" Aidan waved his hand about, "--check if someone's worth it by reading?"

"What do you mean, _worth it?_ " Dean fiddled with his straw wrapper. "I usually determine whether someone's worth it before sex ensues. Don't you?"

Aidan pointed at his gloves idly, then at the waiter. He pursed his lips and broke out in a guilty grin. "Not always, no. Unfortunately, I'm apparently infallibly bad at telling someone's character."

"Well, of course you are," Dean smiled gently, as if Aidan were to be pitied. "You deal with facts and evidence. Thinking about people having personalities, weaknesses--feelings--well, that just complicates things, doesn't it?"

Aidan looked at Dean for a long time. The grin fell. "Fuck you," he huffed, understanding the jab perfectly well, and dug into his food. If this Dean character thought he knew him, he had another thing coming. Aidan didn't like to be read, and he liked it less when they were hitting too close to home for comfort.

"I--" Dean sat back uncomfortably, "I didn't mean to upset you, Aidan. I mean, it's obvious that your mind is analytical. It has to be, in order for you to be successful." 

He took a spoonful of his soup--tomato basil, which smelled delicious--but Aidan's reaction made it taste like sawdust in his mouth. He washed it down with a long swig of soda, the tension threatening to devour him. "I'm sorry," he told Aidan. "We've shared too much. You don't need to know these things about me, nor I you."

"Glad we agree."

No other word was muttered between them until they finished their food. Aidan insisted on paying without speaking. It was company money anyway, and he really didn't want Dean to have something else over on him. They were quiet during the drive back to the station, where Dean was quite quickly deposited into Adam's care. "Show him the evidence," he said curtly, and was off.

Adam blinked. He sat back on his chair, gesturing for Dean to take a seat as well. "Wow, _he's_ having one of his moods again. You okay?"

Dean's eyes followed Aidan's retreating form. "I put my foot in my mouth at lunch, it seems," Dean confessed. "I was just trying to be conversational, but managed to upset him. Live and learn, I suppose," he brightened. "So, what would you like me to start with? Aidan _did_ at least tell you why I'm here, right?"

"Oh, sure. Evidence. But we've got all afternoon for that." Adam smiled and leaned his chin onto the palms of his hands. "Tell me how the visit went first. And don't worry about that guy. He's all right, once you get to know him, but he can be terribly stubborn."

"I'll take your word for it," Dean frowned. "Meanwhile, I need to think more before I talk to him. Uh, the visit...well, we visited the home of the woman who murdered her little girl--the one people are calling The Vampire. Aidan was hoping a fresh pair of eyes might help. I'm not sure I was any use at all, which made for an excellent prelude to our horrible meal."

"Oh, he didn't take you to that diner, did he?" Adam winced. "I'm really sorry if he did that. It's kind of...recent, I suppose. The guy broke up with him because he thought he was more into them having a relationship than Aidan was, and then Aidan made a few mistakes, and now he's trying to convince him at every step that he's over him. Which he is, I think. If only he'd stop continuing to feel like he had to prove that." 

Adam got up and signaled Dean to follow him. Their small walk took them to another desk. "Hello Norma," Adam smiled, "could we have the Vampire case box, please?"

Apparently Adam liked to over-share. Dean chuckled to himself as the woman at the desk entered the locked room behind her and brought out a paper storage box labeled _Whitman, Genevieve_ and handed it to Adam.

"The diner was nice enough," Dean offered. "He ordered some pretentious sandwich that turned out to be a grilled cheese," he sighed, "and he prepared to tell me that he fancies my roommate."

Adam laughed. He brought the cardboard box back to the lab and put it on the table. "Croque monsieur, right? Yeah, that's his favorite." He sat back, allowing Dean the space to do what he wanted with the evidence--bar destroying it, though Adam knew he didn't have to worry about that. "So," he started idly while waiting for Dean, "what makes you think he fancies your roommate? That's awfully quick for him. He saw him once, did he not?"

Dean grinned, "Well, to be fair, he didn't exactly _say_ it, but I'm pretty good at reading people. And he asked me intimate questions about him," Dean kept his gloves on as he sorted through the box. "Has Aidan told you what I do?" he asked again.  
Adam smiled. An easy one. "You're a psychic. You're wearing gloves, and Aidan is being impossible. He doesn't like psychics much, if you hadn't noticed. It's nothing personal. If it makes you feel better, he's only like that when he feels like he's being threatened." Adam smiled a little sadly. "He's always perfectly normal around me." He waited patiently for Dean to take an interest in an object. Aidan had told him not to let Dean in on anything beforehand, so he couldn't come up with some sort of plan, or do research. Adam personally thought that was a bit unfair, but Aidan did have a point. "So your room mate, do you think he'll be interested too?"

"I have no idea," Dean frowned over the items in the box. "I doubt it. He's met someone already, you see. And they're pretty _involved,_ if you know what I mean." Dean's gaze fell finally upon a gold bracelet. "I think I'll start with this," he pulled it from the box. "Are you going to stay for this?" 

Adam perked up, his eyes wider. "Unless you don't want me to. I must admit, I'm really curious about what you do." If Aidan was still pissed off, then Dean had to be at least partly the real deal. "Is it okay if I stay?"

Dean nodded, "Sure." Stripping off his gloves and laying them aside, he picked up the bangle and placed it in his left hand. "If anything happens, just let me finish, okay? I know when to stop," he smiled softly, then placed his right hand over the bracelet.

He was back in the parking garage, walking to his car. His shoes-- _her_ shoes--made a clacking noise as she walked. It was chilly. She had just come from seeing someone. _Dr. Groman._ The name came to her. Her psychiatrist. She was getting help. She hadn't heard the voice in years.

Tears pricked her eyes. _Lizzie would be fifteen now,_ she thought to herself. _She'd want me to teach her about boys and dating._ But that was never going to happen. A gloomy cloud of pain, grief and regret descended, its grip so tenacious she nearly walked past her car. 

But Dr. Groman had taught her how to deal with times like these. She took two long, deep breaths and was taking the third when an arm closed around her waist.

"Hey, crazy lady…" the voice from before assailed Dean's ears. "Baby-killer."

Because he knew what was about to happen, Dean allowed himself to become more detached this time around. He focused on what he could see. Nothing but parked cars and dim lighting. No people. He could hear traffic in the street and the ragged breathing of his captor and the sound of his shoes as he was dragged to his waiting doom. He closed his eyes. He could smell...cologne? A faint whiff of cologne from the person abducting him. The smell was high and metallic, as if fed by adrenaline. The arm around his throat was covered in sleek black leather.

"I'm going to rid the world of you, once and for all," the cold voice affirmed, shoving him into the trunk. This time, he saw the silhouette of the man who had done it. Slender, medium height...and masked. There was nothing identifiable about him.

Dean opened his eyes and sighed. He could still smell the cologne.

"So..." The small man opposite him drawled out the quiet word, masking his eagerness poorly. "What did you see? You were jerking a little. You're okay, right?"

"Not much more than before," Dean lamented. "I was able to slow it down a bit, notice a few more details. But nothing that isn't already in the file. Dark clothes, that kind of thing..." he bit his lip. "There was a smell. A certain type of cologne. But I'm sure thousands of men wear the exact same thing. And, of course, there were no witnesses. It's a shame, really. Despite what Genevieve had done, she was just starting to feel like she'd gotten her life under control. And then she died." Dean put the bangle back in the box reverently. "I wonder if I might have more luck with the evidence from another of the victims?"

Adam frowned at that. He sniffed the air as a conditioned reflex when Dean mentioned the cologne. "Yes, but all in good time, my friend. You seem like this reading is taking a toll on you. You say she was getting back in control. Isn't that supposed to be a bad thing, considering her past?" A little belatedly he added, "Hey, come along, I'll show you where to get a cup of coffee around here. Since you'll be coming here more often now..." Dean looked like he could use one.

Adam passed Aidan in the hall but didn't pause. Because Aidan and Dean weren't getting along very well, Adam thought it was the least he could do for Dean. Adam liked Dean. He was, for as far as he could tell, easier company than his usual lab mate.

Dean raised his hand to Aidan as they passed in the hallway. 

_I'm thinking about you, even though you seem to think Richard's more attractive than I am,_ the hand was meant to signify, _and I'm not going to lie, Adam is creeping me out a little. Come back. Please?_

But Aidan just kept walking, so Dean followed Adam reluctantly to the cafeteria.


	4. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fire at the precinct adds to the complexity of the case.

When Dean got home from the precinct that evening, he sat on the edge of the living room sofa and gave strong consideration to the notion that he and Richard should relocate—again.

No sound indicated another presence until Richard sat down next to him like a ninja. Richard was good at that, walking around barefoot on the carpet and becoming audibly undetectable. He'd used it on several occasions to give Dean a scare, but tonight was not one of those times. "Are you okay?" he worried. "You're a little out of it. Today was your first day at the station..."

Oh, Richard knew that it had something to do with that. The justice system never had been kind to Dean, and it didn't take much for him to come to his conclusion. "Can I get you anything? A coffee? Water?"

Dean shook his head. "No thanks, I'm good." He continued to stare into the crackling fire in their fireplace. "I had a busy day. Aidan, well, I think he hates me. I don't blame him for that." Dean leaned against Richard. "I just...I hoped he would be different from the rest." He blinked, and a tear escaped his eye. He quickly wiped it away with a finger.

"Oh, Dean," Richard sighed, "what has that man been doing?" He had warned Dean that he could be trouble, but Richard didn't want to remind him now. It would only be rubbing it further in. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Oh gosh, _no,_ " Dean replied quickly. "I don't need you to fight this battle for me, Richard. He'll either come around...or he won't. Either way, I'm going to help them. I'm far too intrigued now to back out. I should warn you, though," he poked Richard in the side, "Aidan...he thinks you're cute."

Richard didn't know whether to smile at that or not. "It's a compliment, I suppose," he mumbled. "But something tells me he picked the wrong guy." Wrapping his arms around his friend's shoulder, Richard breathed in deeply. "If there's anything I can do to make it better? Lee's been a bit of an ass today. Apparently, he thinks that a blowjob does not mean exclusivity. Which, if I put it like that, makes sense, but it doesn't make it better. He's been with others. That means, if you need a distraction..."

Dean drew in a long, deep breath. So easy. Even after four years, it would be so easy to simply turn to Richard. Literally, to turn his head a few inches and be kissed by that beautiful mouth. But he didn't feel like being a substitute—not tonight. 

"I appreciate the offer, Professor," he patted Richard's leg affectionately and pulled away from his embrace, "but I think you should be focusing on Lee. Maybe you need to be more aggressive on that front. I'll go see if I can put some dinner together." He stood to go to the kitchen. 

"I'm not with him," Richard said, "and you're more important to me anyway." He made it sound so easy, but if Dean didn't want it, then Richard respected that at the same time too. He tagged along lazily. "Let me make food. You've made it the last few days and besides, today is the first day of your new job. You should be getting some rest."

They didn't make it to the kitchen. Halfway there, Dean's phone rang. 

"Where are you?" Graham—sounding harried. "Can you come over at once?"

"Yes, Graham, of course," Dean replied immediately. "To the precinct?

He put his hand over the receiver and turned to Richard. "Detective McTavish needs me to go back in."

"What, now? You can't be serious? It's your first day!"

Graham however _was_ serious. "The precinct. Please, as soon as you can."

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm coming with you."

 _I don't need a babysitter!_ The words were about to come tumbling from Dean's lips, but he could sense Richard's concern. "All right, then," he smiled gently. "But play nice, okay?"

\- - - - -

The drive to the station took only ten minutes, as many people were home having dinner.

"Graham?" Dean rushed up to the obviously troubled detective, Richard on his heels. "What is it? What's happened?"

Graham stood outside the building—as, they noted, was almost everyone else. The station was abandoned. Aidan, a little further away, also having been called in by his boss, looked at the barred door with poorly hidden frustration. "Dean," Graham sighed, "I'm glad you could make it. This is really unpleasant, on your first day. I'm sorry. We don't know how it happened, really, but a little over an hour ago the fire alarm sounded and everyone was asked to evacuate the building. When we came back, we found every piece of evidence from the Vigilante cases sabotaged, set on fire...There's almost nothing left."

Dean felt as if he were practically punched by the news. "Someone knew I was here helping...that I might get too close to the truth," he surmised. "The Vigilante has been watching us—you, me. God, what do we do now?"

"I don't need to tell you that having his eyes on us is bad enough," Graham looked pale as they stood in front of the cordoned-off glass door. "They will allow us back in as soon as they think it's safe. The fire was well-contained, so it shouldn't be long before I can get a few people in there. I want you to see if you can find out anything. Who did this? Aidan comes with you. He's our best investigator. I'll be counting on the both of you, more than you know."

Aidan joined them. "The son of a bitch knows," he muttered. "I don't get how, but he does."

"This happened because you brought me in," Dean repeated the obvious to him. "Your killer, he's watching. He's _smart._ And he's obviously not done." 

Richard nodded a hello to Aidan behind Dean, at the ready to protect him if need be. "I hope you don't mind I'm here. I think Dean had a rough go of it today. Now, I'm especially glad I came along."

"It's good to see you," Aidan smiled weakly, "I just wish the circumstances were better." His eyes moved to Dean, hardened, then returned to Richard and lingered a second longer than he should. "I don't understand though. Dean hasn't given us anything conclusive today. Why would the Vigilante, if he had one, blow his cover? Now we're aware we are being watched, yet we've got nothing tangible on him."

"Perhaps that's his goal," Graham said, "or perhaps we did stumble across something. Dean, can you recall to me everything you've learnt of the case so far?"

Dean reached into the pocket of his wool coat and pulled out his cell phone. "I made notes after the visit to Genevieve's house, and after each piece of evidence I examined in-house," he told Graham. "A copy went into your records, but I also emailed a copy to myself. Confidential, of course." He pushed a few buttons and a document opened up containing a detailed report of Dean's findings.

 _Object: Gold Bangle belonging to Genevieve Whitman — I think that Genevieve was wearing this when she died. While holding the bracelet, I saw the place of her abduction and murder: a parking garage, in early evening. Her assailant was wearing dark clothing and a mask of some thin, dark material. No identifiable features. Slippery leather coat. He was of medium height. About my height, 5'8" or so. I could smell cologne with a metallic hint to it. Not sure if he was wearing the cologne himself, but the scent was on the coat. The inside of the trunk was coated with plastic or some sort...drop cloths like a painter might use._

"Does that help?" Dean asked Graham.

Graham read the file over twice. "Yes," he nodded. It did. It was a more detailed description of what Aidan had so far found out, and they could work with the cologne and the height. "And the visit earlier?"

"I've got the report," Aidan broke in, tapping his temple. "I don't like this, chief. Something tells me he is about to strike again. This very night, if I'm following my gut instinct. Only this time, we won't have anything left to compare it with."

"Do you still have any of that evidence set aside that you brought to my house?" Dean wondered. "I really feel like there's more to be learned, especially from the flowers."

"None," Adam hung his shoulders low. "It's against company policy to take something out unless you've signed for it, so we rarely do so unless it's strictly necessary." He turned to Graham. "Is there any way I can be useful? I know you're probably sending Aidan and Dean in, but if there's a way for me to do something...?"

"I've already made a list of all the items," Aidan said. "I don't know, anything you remember to add to it is good. Look, if nobody brought an umbrella," and nobody had, "then I suggest we hijack someone's car instead of staying out here until we're feeling like drowned cats. Chief?" Graham had the biggest car, since he was the only one with an actual family.

"Look," Richard cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, "I should get going. I obviously can be of no help here."

"Did you come because you thought you could help?" Aidan wondered aloud. Obviously Richard couldn't. "I expected you were here for Dean."

"I just...I couldn't bear the idea of sitting home alone if he were out risking his life," Richard told the younger man quietly. "And I feel like an idiot saying that out loud," he blushed.

For all Richard blushed, Dean was even more embarrassed. "Adam," he introduced the forensics expert to Richard, "this is Richard Armitage—my housemate, best friend and self-appointed guardian."

Aidan nudged him good-naturedly. "You're not an idiot." He threw him a meaningful glance, then slipped past him and into Graham's car, being the first one out of the rain. "Stick around though, you look like you're good company." Aidan eyed Dean, plainly implying that he wasn't—which wasn't true, if Aidan was honest with himself—and slid down in the bucket seat until his knees touched the dashboard. He was going to be here for a while.

"Adam, hi," Richard reached out and gave Adam's hand a shake. "Dean mentioned you were very patient with him today, and tolerant," he said, loud enough for Aidan to hear him clearly. "He was very grateful for that."

"It's always rough being the new guy," Dean shrugged, climbing into the back seat. 

Richard, looking more than a little unsure, followed him. 

"Dean's going to be a valuable asset," Adam told him, squeezing in next to Richard and sliding the side door shut. "At least, it seemed that way...when we still had evidence."

Aidan huffed in the front seat. "And he's going to continue to be an asset, even if I have to drag him to every crime scene we've been to. That's one thing that fucker can't destroy." He was not too pleased about Richard's jab at his lack of support. It wasn't his fault some guy with super powers came waltzing in, stealing what he was being paid to do—what he had _studied long years for_ to be able to do.

When they were in the car for some time, with a half empty box of steaming takeout macaroni on Aidan's lap that smelled delicious, they were informed they could go in now. Aidan looked at Adam, then at Dean. He offered up the remains of his macaroni to Richard. "Hungry? Gotta go."

Richard shook head almost imperceptibly. "Thank you, though, Aidan," he said softly to him, pulling him aside as the others walked ahead of them. "I hope I didn't make you feel inadequate with what I said to your colleague. Between you and me, Dean really respects you, and he was a bit disappointed that you were so standoffish today."

Having Richard tell him that made Aidan stumble around a reply. With Dean, he would have just snapped something callous, but Richard had a way of making him feel conscious about himself. "I was busy," he offered up a measly excuse. He certainly wasn't going to tell Richard that Richard's friend and ex-lover threatened his job. How weak would that make him sound? "Between you and me, does he always get so involved when he has that...vision thing? It's uncomfortable."

"If it's uncomfortable for you, imagine how Dean feels," Richard's mouth was set in a grim line. "He's always been different. Knows things he shouldn't; things he doesn't want to know. He's seen people die over and over, sometimes feeling the pain and fear they felt. He's tried hard to turn what's been a painful ability into a way of helping others—and helping himself too, along the way, I suppose." Richard stopped in his tracks. "I-I'm sorry, Aidan. He's...well, meeting him saved me. He got me off a dangerous track that might have ended quite badly for me. I suppose I am what he says...his self-appointed protector."

"You were lovers once."

Aidan cursed his own lack of tact. Of all the things he could say, he chose to say that. Admittedly, there was no force behind his words, and he asked it as a question rather than an accusation, but it was nonetheless the stupidest thing to say. "Right. Sorry, that's none of my business. I'll try to think of what you said. It's just," and for the first time Aidan looked less kept together, "he comes in and he takes over, you see. I worked very hard to get where I am now, and I don't understand how it works, how _he_ works, but suddenly he's there and he snatches up all those clues that I spent weeks figuring out. He makes me feel like a fool. Don't tell him I said that, please." 

Aidan eyed the pair ahead of them, holding open the door for him. "I've really got to go now. Eat the macaroni. It's good, and you look like you're hungry."

Richard took the food container from Aidan, but he really didn't feel like eating. His stomach was in knots. Already someone was destroying evidence that they knew Dean was destined to examine. This meant that The Vigilante probably already knew who Dean was. The notion chilled Richard's soul.

"Oh all right," Aidan caved. "Since you're not going to eat that, you might as well come along. Anything Dean sees, he'll tell you anyway. But not a word to anyone else."

Making it to the front door, they followed the others inside. Richard hung back as they despaired over what was lost. It looked as if a concerted effort had been made to destroy the evidence for one case alone, although a great deal more had been damaged in the fire. The evidence room reeked of smoke.

"I wonder how the fire was started," Adam prodded a singed box of folders with the tip of his boot.

"Is there footage?" asked Aidan as he crouched and checked for anything that might give them a clue. In his left hand he clutched his scarf, at the ready in case of particles in the air. The air didn't make it easy to breathe, but if the firemen said it was okay, then he trusted their opinion. "Surveillance, parking lot CCTV, witnesses?"

"The precinct was nearly empty when it happened. Graham was there, thank goodness. If it weren't for him, much more would have caught fire." Adam sighed. It all looked thoroughly destroyed, all except—

"Hang on." Aidan picked up the bracelet of the afternoon. He handed the soot-covered object to Dean. "Are you still getting a reading? Maybe it still works even if half of it is ash now?"

Dean took off his gloves with his teeth and shoved them under his arm, silently accepting the piece of jewelry from Aidan. When he closed his hands around it, he was back in the parking garage. 

"Hey, crazy lady…" the voice began, and he felt the arm around his waist. 

"Yeah," he handed it back to Aidan, making sure their fingers didn't brush, "it still works. Maybe you'll find more. What I'd really like more time with are those flowers. The ones the killer leaves at each crime scene. I think they're our biggest clue to who this guy is."

"I think they're gone though." Aidan looked displeased at the pile of black and gray dust. Organic tissue, dried or not, was always the first to go in a fire. "Maybe if you—" he gestured his hand rummaging around, "—just put your hand in the pile of ash? I don't know, it's probably a long shot, but if the bracelet still works...? I can get you a wet towel to clean up for you when you're done."

Dean's eyes lit up. "Show me where the flowers were kept, Aidan."

Aidan nodded. He ignored Adam and Richard following his progress as he walked further into the storage facility. When Dean didn't follow him, he reached for his wrist and tugged him along until they stopped before the second of the row of charred boxes. The fire had to have started close to here. There was nothing left but a metal plate indicating '3-14' and a pile of soot now. "Here."

"Maybe," Dean looked around him. Near the front of the room, there had been some undamaged items, including a few baskets holding smaller pieces of evidence. He overturned one of them, and a few keys and a wallet fell out onto the shelf. He neatened the pile with his gloved hands and took the basket back to where he'd left Aidan. "If this pile of ashes was one or more of those flowers, I'd like to give it a shot." He brushed the ashes behind the plaque into the basket. "Thanks, Aidan." He carried the basket out into the office proper and looked around for a quiet break room where he could sit and not be noticed.

"Where are you going?" Aidan didn't understand when Dean passed the first clean table where, according to Aidan's logic, he could have sat down and attempted to read the ashes.

"I was...just trying to find somewhere private to do this. I know it makes you nervous, and I thought—"

Aidan frowned. "Well, yes, but you're here now." He turned to look at Richard. "Does it often happen that you need to pull him out of it?"

"Only once or twice," Richard told him. "It's still hectic here. He needs somewhere quiet."

"Guys, I'm right here," Dean reminded them. "I just wanted to get out of everyone's way. Sheesh." He sat down at the first desk he came to and pulled off his gloves.

Nobody spoke when he prepared to read the ash. Aidan's eyes kept flitting between his hands and the box, expecting to see something, although he didn't know what. Richard sat next to him. Aidan didn't move closer despite it being the perfect moment for it, focused as he was on Dean.

"You okay?" Richard asked Dean. "Remember, just let me know and I pull you out if it gets too much."

Dean nodded, warmed by Richard's concern. He slipped his left hand into the crumbling material. Immediately a burnt smell assailed his nostrils. Not deterred, he slipped his other hand into the basket as well.

Immediately, Dean felt a soul-crushing grief. "Mommy?" he heard a voice whimper, and felt the wetness of tears on his face. 

"We'll get through this," a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and held him tightly "You and me, son. We'll be all right. And, mark my words, the man who did this will pay. I'll find a way to make it happen. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Daddy," a tiny voice answered. He realized the voice was his own. 

Dean looked up. They were sitting in a room facing a coffin covered by a spray of desert roses. The coffin was closed, and he knew with certainty that the woman inside was his mother. She'd been killed, raped—but he didn't quite understand what that word meant. He had heard his Daddy say it to one of his friends after he’d been drinking.

He tried to get a look at the man speaking, or more of the room, but the memory was hazy—a fuzzy childhood recollection.

Dean shifted the contents of the basket a bit, and the scene changed. Yet another coffin, a silver one, being slowly lowered into the ground. Things were clearer now. He felt a warm hand on his elbow. "He's with your mother now," a woman's voice said to him. "He's finally at peace." But Dean felt anything but peace emanating from the young man at the grave of his parents. The names were obscured by a piece of Astroturf.

The young man leaned forward, his slender fingers plucking a handful of desert roses from the top of his father's coffin.

Again the scene changed and Dean startled. He was standing over a body—the body of the man who had killed his mother. Shiny plastic drop cloth under the murderer reflected harsh light from above. He had one booted foot on the man's abdomen and a pair of dark, frightened eyes begged him for mercy. But there was none to be had. The knife in his hand plunged down and penetrated the man's chest with a horrible squelching sound. All he felt was vindication.

Dean felt sick as the knife descended again and again, but he tried to memorize the victim's features. When he began to feel the warmth of the man's blood seeping through his gloves, he opened his eyes with a cry.

Richard and Aidan were watching him intently.

"We can still use these," he told them. " I need to record what I saw."

Richard looked from his left to his right, watching Dean's new colleagues as they processed this. The man named Adam was anything but comfortable—though who would be? Aidan, however, veered forward in a mixture of awkwardness and anticipation.

"What is it?" he asked. "You saw something new, didn't you? What is it?" From his pocket came a digital recorder that he held out. "If you want, you can tell us about it?"

Dean looked paler than he normally did during a reading. Aidan bit his lip when he noticed he was close to toppling. "Hang on," he said, and hurried to the vending machine, from which he drew a can of Coke. "Here. Helps against nausea."

"I-I need to wash my hands," Dean shook what fragments of the ashes he could off into the basket. In the back of his mind, he was still stabbing that man. If only he had a name—a name for the victim, a name for the young boy and his parents. He felt like a failure. He could still hear the sick, squelching sound of the knife piercing flesh and the pleasure the assailant derived from it.

Rushing to the bathroom, he thrust his hands under the automatic faucet and let the water purify his hands of the flower ashes. The overpowering feeling that killing that man had been the right thing to do wouldn't leave him. Maybe it had been. His hands trembled as he dried them, and it was with relief that he slipped his gloves out of his pocket and put them on.

"I'm sorry," he told those gathered when he exited the bathroom. "I had to get it off me. It wouldn't stop." He accepted the soda from Aidan, taking a long swig. "I'm ready for that microphone now."

Aidan handed it over immediately. "Here." He backed away and gestured for Richard and Adam to give him some space too. Dean's statement was one of the few things they still had. It was important that nothing would be lost in the fading of a vision.

Richard didn't want to back off, but he too saw the merit. For Dean's sake they moved back into the dark of the office, leaving him under the single light that was switched on around them.

Dean held the voice recorder in his gloved hand, and watched as a few seconds ticked by and the word REC flashed. Finally, he spoke.

"This is Dean O'Gorman. It's December second, two thousand thirteen, at," he looked down at his watch, "nine twenty five p.m. I will now give a description of what I read from a basket full of burnt flowers. The flowers were desert roses, not indigenous to Washington, D.C. They were imported as the casket spray for at least two different funerals. The first was for a young woman who was raped and murdered. Her son was about seven years old when it happened. The flowers were again used on the father's casket when he died. The young man would have been in his mid- to late teens then. I don't have names for any of these people. It was cold when the father was buried, so I will guess he died anywhere between October and March, but no cause of death, there." 

He took another sip from the nearby can of soda before continuing. "I saw a murder. The little boy, the teen, he grew up. The man he murdered was the man who killed his mother. He had been released from prison approximately ten days earlier when he was hunted down. Apparently he had gone to prison for the crime, but the young man—the murderer, the one they are calling The Vigilante—had sworn a pact of revenge with his father at his mother's funeral. This murder was most likely his first. It was...gruesome. He had laid him on a sheet of plastic and he stabbed him over and over. I lost count how many times."

He put down the recorder and looked up at the others. "I wish I had more to tell you. Maybe there's something in there that you can use as a jumping off point."

On the other side of the table, Aidan sat down, threw out his bag and pulled out his laptop. Before flipping it open he reached over and in a moment of elation, quite unexpectedly even to himself, kissed Dean firmly on the forehead. "That's incredibly useful! Ads, come on, new input!"

"What, now?" Adam wasn't as enthusiastic. "Have you checked the time?"

"Nine thirty-something. Time to work!"

"I..." Dean was flustered. "Did he just...?" he turned to Richard, flabbergasted. "Wow. I hadn't expected _that._ "

Suddenly more sober, he leaned towards Richard. "If they can figure out who the murdered man was, it won't be too hard to figure out who that poor little boy is. Was. I gotta tell you, Richard, I feel bad for him, The Vigilante. Horrible things happened to him. He's obviously got some mental issues to sort through."

"It would seem so," Adam nodded in agreement. "Losing a parent, especially tragically, is a trigger for many criminals. I can tell you that from experience. But rarely around the time it occurred." He studied Dean for a moment. "You have a real gift, Dean. I'm sorry if I doubted you. I'm really impressed by what you've done." He smiled kindly and turned to help Aidan.

As for Aidan, if reality had caught up with him and informed him of what he had done, he kept his response well-guarded. "Hey Ads," he wondered, "if you want to go, I understand that too."

"Why?" wondered Adam. "I'm staying right here."

"But your mum..."

"She's the reason I'm here, Aidan," Adam reminded him, "helping people. I knew when I was a little boy that this is what I wanted to do. People need closure. Each person murdered by this guy is still that—a person. Their families want answers. It's not up to us to judge them, is it? No matter how strongly we feel or what we've had to deal with."

Dean watched the exchange with curiosity. 

Aidan threw him a look that said he would explain it later. Then his laptop was fully booted and all of his attention was on the screen.

"Is there anything we can do?" Richard asked eventually when Aidan did nothing more and Adam too was looking intently at the screen, making Dean and his presence feel a bit redundant. Aidan snapped out of his haze and blinked.

"Oh, ah, well, I think I'll be here all night if this new information yields results, but it might be better if we don't make Dean read more than he might be able to handle. That last one looked intense enough." He smiled. "Get some food and rest. I will see you," Dean, "tomorrow, and you," Richard, "hopefully soon."

Dean raised his eyebrows in amusement. "I _am_ tired," he admitted. Richard, of course, knew he was probably closer to dropping off as he sat there, but he didn't contradict.

"Let's get you home, fed and into bed then," he patted Dean on the shoulder, which drew a chuckle from Adam. 

"See you tomorrow," Dean told the others. "Call me if that changes."

Adam looked up after the pair had left. "They're nice. I really like them.

"That Richard guy is good-looking, isn't he?" Aidan bit at the inside of his left cheek.

Aidan ran a cross-check to match the new information he had heard. He kept his eyes on the screen and only pulled away to gesture at Richard and Dean to keep moving when they turned and paused at the end of the hallway. He was sure they hadn't heard, but swiftly returned to the task when they were gone. "Ash still works. That's incredible. I thought we had lost it all."

As Richard and Dean made it outside, Richard breathed in the rain-cold air. "Is it okay if we do get takeout? It's gotten a little late."

"I was hoping you'd suggest that," Dean confessed. "I'm beat. Thank you, for sticking up for me back there. I heard what you said to Aidan. That was really, really nice."

Richard tugged him closer and wrapped an arm around his waist. "It's no big deal. Did you hear what he said to me, too?"

"About wanting to see you again?" Dean huffed. "God, could he be any more obvious? I did warn you."

"About the part where he's afraid of you," Richard corrected, as they headed in the direction of Graham's car to report going home for the night, as well as the status of the evidence. "You come in and take over his job, that's what he said. I don't think his attitude is directed at who you are, Dean, but instead at his own pride."

Dean looked down sadly. "I could never do what he does," he said quietly. "He has to know that."

"I see a man who's trying hard. Not that he's doing a good job, I'm afraid, but point that out to him when he's being too much of an asshole again. No doubt he will be." Richard nudged his friend kindly. "You care a lot about his opinion."

"Wish I didn't," Dean sighed sadly. "Part of me wishes we'd picked a different city. I feel like I got too close tonight. The person who set that fire...he's gotta be able to move freely around that precinct. I feel as if I've put myself in danger. Probably you too, now."

It was that one thing that Richard hoped Dean had missed out on. He didn't like what he said next. "Do you want to move again?" Dean immediately shook his head.

But Dean's safety was more important than Lee, who had ruined his chances with him anyway. "This case is getting too close. I can understand you if you wanted to." Richard was not sure whether the fire was a means of getting rid of evidence, or a warning, but he didn't want to scare Dean further, and so he didn't say.

They stopped when they reached Graham, reported what they saw, and left for their own car.

"Pizza?" Richard suggested.

"There's no way I'm running away from this," Dean picked up the previous conversation after they got safely to Richard's car. "I'll just have to be extra careful—and keep an eye on you, of course," he put his hand companionably on Richard's thigh. “Pizza sounds great. Let’s call that place up the street from our townhouse.”

Richard knew that was to be the answer. "You mean I'll keep an eye on you. And that Aidan guy. He does something stupid and he's in for it, got it?" But he was glad that evidence was recovered, and that kiss on the forehead had been adorable to see. Just to be safe though, Richard was installing an alarm in the house.

\- - - - -

Dean was sent a message that next morning to come in a little later. Apparently, Aidan and Adam had pulled an all-nighter and were sent home when Graham found them where he’d left them at eight the next morning. "13:00 will be fine," Graham texted.

"Mmm, nice." Dean slouched into the kitchen wearing a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a Pink Floyd tee shirt. "I can go back to bed for a bit. I don't have to go to the precinct until 1. When's your first class?"

The kitchen table was a mess, with Richard just in the middle of cleaning up a broken jam jar. "Hey," he winced, "don't come in unless you're wearing shoes. Sorry. I'll vacuum before I leave. Nine thirty. Right opposite Lee, too. I'm not looking forward to it."

"Do I even want to know what happened here?" Dean chuckled, retreating to the counter and hopping up on it. "And why would you be nervous about seeing Lee?"

"Jar slipped. He slept with that girl again, remember?" said his flat mate. "I'm sorry, I know should get over it, I just..." Richard couldn't. He was old-fashioned when it came to dating and sex. He certainly had never strung along two people at the same time, even if nobody mentioned exclusivity. "What's worse is that he keeps treating it like it's no big deal. Well, it is. Or it isn't. There's more fish in the sea than just him, right?"

"Oh, Rich," Dean sighed. "I'm so sorry. Maybe he just doesn't realize how strongly you feel about him. If he knew, he'd never turn you away. He'd be a fool."

"I'm sure the part where I told him to get lost might have given it away." Richard sat back on his haunches and regarded the mess. "I’ve only known him for a week. I'm sure it shouldn't be too hard finding someone else." Someone, as went without saying, who did not have dark curls and a difficult personality. He hopped up to get the vacuum cleaner for the shards. The stain itself was still there, impossible to remove. "You don't have a twin brother walking around somewhere, do you? That would make things so much easier."

"If I did, I'd never share you with him," Dean grabbed Richard's shirt as he walked past and pulled him into the vee of his legs to hug him. "I'm selfish like that. You are such a catch. Clearly this Lee character needs to have his head examined." His first instinct, which he dared not act on, was to kiss his friend. He loved the way Richard looked in the morning, hair all disheveled and shirt untucked. Instead he just squeezed him tighter and breathed in the comforting scent he'd come to associate with home.

 _And you_ , thought Richard, but those days were unfortunately past. "He does need to have his head examined—and, no, you really don't want me to finish that sentence. Now, I'm going to clean this up and then I've got to run. Maybe I'm going to keep pinching some spot on my neck so it looks like a love bite and see how he responds. That's not very professional though, is it? My students are bad enough as it is."

Pecking Dean on the cheek, Richard was off to fuss about the stain. He managed to erase most of it by the time he had to leave and apologized profusely for what was still left when putting on his coat. "I'll cook food tonight," Richard promised Dean. Then he was off, leaving Dean alone in an empty apartment.


	5. I've Got Sirens and I'm Not Afraid to Use Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations in the case lead to someone getting hurt. We meet a few more suspects... er, characters.

Dean should have gone back to bed. Despite his exhaustion, he had tossed and turned all night, but all he could think about was the dreadful, wet sound the knife had made puncturing resistant flesh...and that he should have offered to give Richard that love bite.

He took a shower and made himself a sun-dried tomato bagel with cream cheese. Then he did doze off on the sofa for awhile, waking up with just enough time to make it to the precinct. 

Wearing his new ID badge, he walked through the crowded station to meet with Aidan and Adam in the lab. They both looked as if they could do with more sleep than they had gotten.

"Morning," Adam said, over a hot mug of coffee.

"Hey," Dean smiled. "Graham said you two really burned the midnight oil last night."

"Hey," Aidan mimicked, "look who decided to show up. Actually, the chief said we needed a day off, but we couldn't let that happen, not with what we've found out. Here, watch this." Dean was pulled in front of Aidan's screen, where eight profiles were pulled up. "Any of these people look familiar to you? They're what we've come up with after your input. Taking a minor error margin into account, any one of these guys could be our killer. We've never been this close!"

Dean carefully studied the men on Aidan's screen, none of whom looked like anyone he’d seen in any of his visions.

"I didn't see the face of The Vigilante," he reminded them. I did however see who I thought might be his first victim. Do you have photos of the victims? If I could show you the one I saw...would that help?"

Aidan's disappointment that none of the selected men looked familiar was short-lived. "Absolutely," he said. "I'll give you the profile pics." Better not dig up the crime scene photos, because they weren't exactly pleasant. A few ministrations further, he offered Dean the seat and a folder with every profile picture remotely linked to the case. "Point out the one."

Adam watched them from over his own laptop. He smiled at Dean. "Get a cup of coffee and out of that coat first. Aidan, manners."

"What manners? Adam, we're _this_ close, I can sense it!"

"It's okay," Dean smiled, fueled by their exuberance. "I feel it too." He took off his coat but not his gloves, and sat down with the folder. He was surprised at the number of victims. He hadn't realized The Vigilante was so prolific. He counted fourteen as he skimmed through quickly, then settled in to give each one a closer look.

They looked like ordinary men and women. And they were, aside from the fact that each one of them had committed a crime. Nearly all were murderers. A few were pedophiles or child pornographers. Two were rapists. Most had served three to fifteen years for their crimes. 

Dean noted all of this as he scanned the faces and accompanying notes. He flipped a page suddenly and his heart froze in his chest. He shivered. "This is him. This is the man I saw killed when I touched the flowers last night. His name is Charles Drysdale."

"This was his first victim?" Aidan exchanged a long glance with Adam, who swallowed audibly, got up and walked away. When Dean made to follow him, Aidan held Dean him back.

"Do you know who the man on that photo is?" he asked. Aidan, Dean couldn't help but notice, was quieter. "We're not even sure about whether he fits the profile. Charles Drysdale was murdered sloppily. None of the Vigilante's later finesse. He matches the description you gave yesterday. Stab wounds in the chest. He's a wildcard. He's...well, he was a close friend of Adam's family for a long time."

"I'm just telling you that this is the man I witnessed being murdered last night. He was stabbed over and over. It was done by the person whose mother was raped and killed. That's all the flowers told me," Dean shrugged, apologetically. "I didn't mean to upset Adam."

"Adam's mother was…" Aidan began bitterly. "… well, it's a sensitive subject. His mother was murdered when he was young. Charles Drysdale, he was a friend of the family, and a serial rapist. He had countless victims like Adam's mum, all mothers with young kids, until someone finished him. The case is very close to Adam for that reason. We never honestly suspected it would be the Vigilante." He closed the laptop. "We never really talk about it, because it's painful for him. It is why he insisted to be put on the case, and why he insisted Drysdale's picture be added to potential victims."

"Oh my god," Dean scrubbed his face with his hands, as if to un-see what he'd already seen. "Poor Adam. That must have been horrible for him. She was probably one of the many women that were part of his spree. No wonder he sympathizes so strongly with the Vigilante. If anyone harmed my mother, you can be assured I'd want to kill him, too." He looked around for Adam, but the young man had left the room. "Is there a list somewhere of all Drysdale's victims? Maybe the Vigilante is another of the young boys whose mother died at his hands."

Aidan had tried that but came up short. "Sorry. I'll do my best to get that list. It's something tangible for a change. That's really good, after chasing ghosts like we have for the past few months." He coughed and awkwardly added, "Thank you. Here, sit with me. It's time you learned some of the details concerning the Vigilante cases. We didn't bring you up to date with the files yet, did we?"

"You want me to—?" Dean gestured to the chair next to Aidan. The awkward words were out of Dean's mouth before he could stop them. "I—yes, of course. Teach me. I want to know."

Dean sat down in the chair Aidan offered and for two hours Aidan lay out the history of the Vigilante murders.

Dean's phone jumped to life while they were looking at a particularly gruesome photo of Genevieve Whitman's desecrated body, startling them both. Dean didn't recognize the number in caller ID. "Hello?"

"Dean O'Gorman?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yes, this is Dean," Dean felt a feeling of unnamed fear creeping up on him.

"My name's Cynthia Fulton. I'm a nurse at George Washington University Hospital. We're calling because you're listed as the emergency contact of a Richard Armitage?"

"Yes...." Dean felt his face grow numb with panic. "Yes, Richard's my friend. M-my roommate."

"He's just been brought in and treated. Mr. Armitage will be fine. He fell down a flight of stairs where he worked and was brought here by ambulance. We wanted to let you know so you can make arrangements to come see him."

_Oh god, oh god, oh god..._ Dean felt as he couldn't breathe. "Tell me where to find you. I'll be right over." He reached for a pen and post-it note nearby and wrote down the details. "Aidan, I'm sorry," he said, getting up and putting his phone back into his pocket. "Richard got hurt. I need to go."

"Hurt? Richard?" Aidan was on his feet at once. "Where is he? Is he going to be fine? Oh, Graham kept telling me we shouldn't have brought you in, especially when he came along." It was the Vigilante; Aidan could just feel it. It was frightening enough that he knew how to get into the precinct and knew where to find the right files, but Aidan had not considered that a threat until now. He reached for his coat. "Let me drive you there. Trust me, I've got sirens and I'm not afraid to use them. We'll be faster."

Try as Dean might, there was no swaying him. Less than two minutes later, Aidan's car pulled out of the parking lot and, as soon as they were far enough from the station to alert anyone of misuse—Aidan did have some common sense—he switched the sirens on. The traffic around them moved aside like he was Moses. "Give me a lane!” he demanded, "And stop looking like that. I'm doing the best I can."

Dean's eyes were glossy with unshed tears. "You're doing fine, Aidan. Wonderfully. Oh god, Richard....This is all my fault. I should have made him stay home last night. I should have...I should have said no to you and Graham," he sniffed. "But I couldn't. Not after I saw what the flowers were hiding."

Aidan drove them directly to the exit and parked the police car in the fire lane, as was his prerogative. 

Dean rushed inside to the elevator, Aidan close at his heels, and once inside pushed the button for the seventh floor with his gloved finger. The blond hugged himself as the elevator climbed too slowly for his liking.

Upon reaching room 728, Dean froze momentarily, until Aidan's warm hand on his shoulder reminded him to move forward. Richard lay in the bed closest to the door. His bed was separated from his roommate's by a white and blue patterned curtain. He was sleeping, a deep bruise gracing his face from temple to cheekbone. It was clear he had struck his head on...something. His left wrist bore a navy blue cast. 

Dean slipped immediately into the chair at Richard's bedside. "Oh, Richard," he sniffed. "I'm so, so sorry."

Aidan stood in the doorway, not sure of what to say or do. Richard looked like a mess, but thankfully less of a mess than he had feared. When Dean had said Richard had gotten in an accident, well, it wasn't hard to picture him with a few nasty fractures, if not worse. If this was the Vigilante's work, then he did a poor job at it, he thought with relief. It was a warning.

In the bed, Richard was slowly cracking open an eye. He couldn't do more, thanks to the medication, and smiled weakly at Dean's presence. "What are you doing here?" he muttered. "You're supposed to be catching that guy. I'll be fine. I slipped on the stairs, that's all."

Dean leaned over and lay a soft kiss to the uninjured side of Richard's forehead. Richard was the most graceful, careful man he knew. He didn't just _fall down a flight of stairs_. His eyes studied the bruising. 

"You look awful," Dean said finally, to break the tension.

"Oh, I've looked worse," Richard quipped sleepily. "That's no way to greet someone in a hospital bed. Try again."

Aidan, meanwhile, had picked up Richard's medical chart and was scanning it out of habit. _Broken wrist, concussion, back sprain..._

"Can I see what happened?" Dean asked gently, slipping off his gloves. "Will you show me?"

It was tiring for Richard to keep him eyes open. He registered just before closing them that Aidan was there—but Richard's mind was too befuddled to draw conclusions from that. "I couldn't stop you if I wanted to. Go ahead."

It was then that a pair of footsteps joined them and stopped next to Aidan. "Who's he?" whispered a tall blond with short hair and a casual look about him.

"Who, Richard?" Aidan put the chart away and turned on him. "Who are you, anyway? Family?" He didn't trust anyone anymore after the fire at the precinct.

Dean looked up at the man standing next to Richard's bed, and recognized him right away. "You must be Lee," he slipped his glove back on and offered his hand to Lee to shake. "I'm Dean, Richard's housemate. He's told me a lot about you. Were you with him when he got hurt?"

_Did you see what happened?_ was what he wanted to ask. That and _Why the fuck are you messing around with Richard's heart?_ But Dean kept those questions to himself.

"Ah, no. I was in class, but I heard what happened and I had to see if he was all right," Lee apologized. He stood there awkwardly opposite the famous ex that Richard mentioned so frequently, next to some other guy he didn't know and who didn't know what to do, either. "Is he? All right, I mean?"

Aidan felt lost between these men who all knew each other. "I'll get a coffee," he pointed over his shoulder, desperate to get away, "anyone else want one too?"

Dean smiled at Aidan softly and shook his head no. Aidan left, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"He's injured, obviously," Dean said to Lee, and it came out sounding meaner than he had hoped it would. "I mean, the cast and the bruising," he sighed. "Who knows what's under those sheets..."

"You _both_ know what's under these sheets," Richard chuckled. "Hi, Lee."

"And he's clearly on really good pain meds," Dean added, eyebrows raised. 

"I am," Richard reached for Dean's hand. "I can hardly keep my eyes open."

"And you should be resting," Dean told him, taking Richard's hand in his own. He looked up at Lee, "You heard him. We should let him rest." He hoped his words would give Lee the hint to get lost.

Lee however had just gotten there. "I can look after him," he challenged Dean while hoping it didn't look as such. He tried a smile at Richard, hoping to be granted one in return.

Richard allowed him one, before his eyes fell shut. "Dean, stay a little while?"

The message was clear. Lee's company was appreciated, though it was better if he left them alone together for a minute. To be disregarded like that hurt. Lee retreated grudgingly and looked away when Richard's eyes found his again. "I guess I'll go and see what's keeping that coffee," he mumbled. Off he was, leaving the room quiet except for a few monitoring devices.

Aidan stood waiting for him. He grinned while handing him his coffee, and ignored the nurse who threw him a look for having coffee in the hallway. Apparently it was poor conduct. "So. Lee, was it? Friend of Richard's?"

"We work together, at Strayer," Lee took a sniff of the coffee before bringing it to his lips. "We're professors." He didn't offer anything about their more personal extra-curricular activities. His eyes fell to the badge on Aidan's belt. "Are you with Dean?" 

"We work together, homicide department," Aidan offered Lee nearly the same words. "We're forensic investigators." He kept his eyes on the door and then on the floor. Linoleum, a colorless gray on which dust and stray hairs would almost completely disappear. Smart, albeit dreary. Did he mention he hated hospitals?

While he didn't look at Lee for a lack of wanting to appear interested, Aidan observed him in other ways. He wasn't comfortable. He regarded Dean as a threat, based on the many glances he gave him, and he kept biting his nails or otherwise moving. This man could not sit still. He was—and that astonished Aidan—jealous. "Does Richard know?" he asked at last.

"Know what?" Lee leaned coolly against the wall, tucking one hand into the pocket of his jeans. His impatiently tapping foot, however, took away from his laid-back veneer.

"That you want him." Aidan didn't feel like pretending he could be wrong. He knew he was right. If anyone knew these things, it was him. Just as he could tell that the head nurse checked Richard's room more frequently than she checked the rest of the rooms, and that one of the younger nurses had no interest in men at all. "That's why you're here."

"Well," Lee sighed, "it's true. I mean...we have a bit of a _thing_ going on. So far, only a few stolen moments at work. I would like more. Who wouldn't? But he's always going on about Dean. I mean, have you noticed that? They're close."

"Mh." Aidan wasn't concerned about Dean stealing Richard away, although he had noticed the closeness between them. Anyone less good at reading character than him could be mistaken. "Can't blame you. I'd want more of that too, but so far nothing more than a shared macaroni. You mean, he doesn't call you his boyfriend?" Aidan made a show of smiling at that. If nobody knew that his prior interest in Richard had been to bother Dean, then none would be the wiser.

Lee chuckled. "It's a bit too soon for _that,_ " he said wryly. "Besides, do people in their forties even use the word 'boyfriend'?" The blond took a long sip of his coffee. "It's funny, Richard never mentioned his housemate was a cop."

"Consultant," Aidan explained and added fuel to the fire he was trying to start. " _I_ would call him my boyfriend if I had him."

"Ah," Lee raised his eyebrows, "so, you've come with Dean in sympathy, but your goal is to cozy up to Richard?" he smiled and raised his coffee in salute. "Good luck with that, my friend."

Aidan met the Styrofoam cup with his own. His own was fuller, which was satisfactory. "None needed, but thank you anyway. I prefer the slow but sure method, not blundering things together and hoping you can make something of the mess. You'll see." He smiled at Lee and walked up to the room. By now he assumed Dean was done.

Well, Dean had certainly done a reading; he was swaying on his feet like he could topple any moment and his skin was pallid. As soon as Aidan saw that, he strode in, urged him into a seat, and forced the last half of his coffee against Dean's lips. "You're overdoing it," he muttered.

"Yeah, probably," Dean pushed the cup gently away after one sip. "I...Richard was pushed. I felt it. I was _him,_ that's how it works. I felt a hand in the middle of my back and I was falling. I tried to grab the hand rail, but I was moving too fast." He was unconsciously rubbing his wrist as he spoke, signaling how Richard had broken it. "My head hit one of the stairs before I hit bottom. I was nearly unconscious—dizzy, floating—and I heard people yelling for help. I heard crackling, felt a hand reaching into my shirt pocket and patting it for emphasis. Then things went dark." 

Dean turned to Aidan. "I checked Richard's shirt pocket, there in the closet. This was in it," he handed a small, folded piece of paper to Aidan. On it were three typed words, in all capital letters:

**BACK OFF, BLOODHOUND**

"This wasn't an accident," Dean summed up his story. "And whoever did this to Richard...he has to pay."

Lee, who had overheard everything from the door, crossed his arms over his chest. "What the fuck _are_ you?" he asked Dean wide-eyed.

Aidan's head whipped around and fixed Lee with a murderous expression. "Back off, you." That same look was shared, in a milder version, by Richard, who took anything offending Dean as an offense against himself. 

"Go," Richard whispered to Lee, "I'll see you back at work."

"Rich..."

"Just fucking _go,_ " Aidan hissed. He offered Dean his gloves, wondering absently if him touching the leather would trigger visions of him if Dean touched that same spot on the outside, and checked him if he was all right. Then he sat back, pulled out his cell phone despite hospital regulations, and called Graham directly.

It was a threat, and he wasn't going to have Richard sleep here at night without anyone guarding him. The Vigilante knew. A murderer—who knew what they said when they said it—knew.

It was potentially the first time Aidan felt truly scared.

Dean leaned towards Richard and spoke quietly while Aidan was on the phone. "It was a perfectly normal reaction to something totally freaky," he told him. "You shouldn't have chased him away. I could have told him about what I do. You want him to like you, right?" he pulled the blankets up higher on Richard's chest as he scolded him. "You and Aidan," he shook his head, "you're going to be the death of me."

"He looked at you as if you were some kind of freak," Richard defended himself, albeit quietly. "I don't care if it was _freaky_ to him, I don't like it."

“You looked at me that way when we met too, Richard,” Dean reminded him, an affectionate hand on his casted wrist.

"I just don't like him," Aidan shared his own two cents when he got off the phone. Lee needed a serious waking up before he could be considered suitable dating material. "A guard will be stationed at your door at all times. Nobody comes in or out unless he approves it. I'm sorry Dean, but after what you just told me, I don't want him here without anyone to protect him."

Quite unexpectedly, Dean got up and threw his arm around Aidan, hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Aidan!" he nearly sobbed in relief. "I would have sat here by his bedside all night wide awake holding a scalpel if you hadn't done that." He pulled away, as if just realizing what he was doing. "Anyway...I'm grateful, and I'm sure Richard is too."

But Richard had finally dozed off. Dean was overcome with the surge of protectiveness and love that washed over him. 

"I..." Well, Aidan didn't know what to say. He'd been rather obnoxious to Dean before, and that behavior had definitely not warranted any display of affection. "Of course he needs a guard. That was a threat, Dean, and he's vulnerable while he's here. Listen," he guided him a little away from Richard, indicating for him to take a seat, "I have no idea who it is, but we've got a mole. That, or he works at the precinct himself. So I suggest we pretend for a while that you stopped working for us. I can take your work to your home, and I won't tell anyone else about the arrangement. Graham, maybe, but that's all. It's not safe for you if we do this any other way, unless you get out entirely. You're all we have at the moment, so I hope you won't."

"Whatever it takes, Aidan," Dean agreed immediately. "We can make look like I've turned tail and given up. But I'm not. I'm more committed now than ever."

Aidan's phone buzzed to life inside his jacket and a text from Adam popped up. _Are you two okay? I'm sorry, I got emotional and needed to take a walk to clear my head. I came back with Starbucks and Graham said you guys were at the hospital. Report in, please. - Ads_

Aidan looked up at Dean. His eyes filled with determination, though he didn't like it. _I'm okay, but Dean's friend Richard got injured. Might be the Vigilante. He is considering leaving the project..."_ He looked up to Dean. "Adam. He can't know either. Nobody. Are you okay with that? It's the only way I can protect you and Richard, Dean."

Dean nodded. "That's fine. The less people know, the better." He yawned. "God, it's only 5 p.m. and I'm already exhausted. I'd like to stay with Richard tonight, if they'll let me." He turned to look at the curtain barrier between Richard and the yet unseen roommate. "Doubt they will. Home, I guess."

Aidan's phone vibrated. _Richard?! I really like him. Plz give him my best. I hope this won't deter Dean. He's really quite something and we need him._

"Are you okay at home?" Aidan looked up. Dean was their only lead, and he was being threatened. He couldn't risk losing the last means they had of putting the killer behind bars—or so he told himself. "Maybe you should visit friends in the area or something. I'll be honest, I don't want you to be alone." He waited on responding to Adam. That would make it seem like they were discussing it still, which wasn't far from the truth.

"I..." Dean paused. "Well, I haven't really been here long enough to make friends," he reminded Aidan. "The Vigilante has a code, right? He kills criminals. He's not going to kill me," he told Aidan. "I'll be okay."

But the idea of being at home alone was very unsettling.

"You will be," encouraged Aidan. "Either way, call me if you hear anything out of the ordinary. Anything. You have my number, right? I can get surveillance around your house if you want it, maybe?"

"No, you don't have to do that," Dean told him. "You're already putting valuable resources here on Richard. I'll never sleep if I know a stranger—even a policeman—is watching my house. Unless..." he brightened. "Ah, never mind."

"Unless?"

Aidan quickly followed by sending Adam a text message. _Trying to convince him. He's upset. Talk to you later._

"Well, Richard and I have a decent-sized place. You've seen it," Dean nervously cupped the back of his own neck. Two bedrooms and a pull-out sleep sofa in my office. You could come spend the night, if you wanted. I mean, if you felt I needed to be watched over. You could even bring work along. I could sleep with you there, I think." 

"I—" Aidan cringed at the request. "I'm meeting friends tonight. They're in the area for a few days. If you don't mind that, I can drop by after that?" he offered meekly. "How long do they think Richard is going to be in the hospital for?"

"Oh," Dean didn't disguise his disappointment well. "Of course. Well, it was really short notice, after all. You should enjoy your time off. I imagine your work is very taxing." Dean tried to conjure up a mental image of what Aidan's friends might look like and found himself struggling with it. "I'll ask the nurse about it, but maybe Richard will just be here overnight. Look, I'll just go home, lock up and sleep. Please, don't be put out. I'm really tired anyway. We'll get back to the case when you feel it's time."

Aidan sat back. He didn't like Dean being alone, not really. If the Vigilante had found where Richard worked already, then there was a big chance Dean would face a warning of his own soon too, until they got him officially off the project. "I can be there at ten," he offered. "I'll arrange for you to be allowed in the hospital until that time. It'll be fine. I don't want him to get to you, too."

"Aidan, you're very kind," Dean told him, "but please don't change your plans for me. I get the feeling you don't get out nearly as much as you should."

Aidan breathed in and out. "Then you're coming with me. It's nothing big, it's just people who are in the neighborhood. If you don't feel comfortable being alone, and I don't feel comfortable with you being alone without anyone to guard you, then you won't be alone. At the very least stay at mine or Graham's place if you're refusing to let me stay over."

"Aidan," Dean turned to give Richard a long look tinged with worry, "no. I don't want to leave him. _I_ did this to him. Don't you get that?" he reached out and smoothed the hair away from Richard's forehead, even though it didn't need it. "The idea of going out while he's here hurting...I can't do it. I'll stay until visitors hours end, then head home. You have my address. Just," he frowned, "come over when you're done with your friends. Stay out as late as you like. If I'm asleep, I'll wake up when you ring the bell. Okay?"

It felt a little like a dismissal, one that—for no apparent reason—sat uncomfortable. But, Aidan reasoned, at the same time it was Dean giving in to his offer to come over after he was done. The people coming over were more like colleagues than they were friends, really; they shared a love for forensics and deduction and had cluttered together during classes in university, but an honest personal bond had never grown. It was just a night of being among like-minded people. "I'll leave you when the guards arrive," he said. "It shouldn't be long now. Do you want me to tell them to keep Lee out? No offense, but I think he could profit from being denied access to Richard for a few days."

Dean chuckled. "Richard really likes him," he told the brunet. "I'd better get used to the idea of him being around—and he to me being around." He put his hand on Aidan's arm again. "I'm sorry if I said the wrong things. I'm not trying to get rid of you, Aidan. I'm really glad you're coming over tonight."

A pleasant silence lingered between them. Aidan smiled quietly. "I'm sorry I wanted you out. You're not so bad, Dean." He got up, stretched, and looked at Richard. "Don't tell Richard: I've told Lee that I'm after him too. Perhaps that'll encourage Lee to make the right choices. I don't know. It's worth a shot, isn't it?" Aidan turned to smile at Dean. He envied them, Dean and Richard and their friendship. Aidan didn't know how to have a friendship like that. He had no idea where to start.

A man in a suit knocked on the door. "Mr. Turner?" he asked. "I’m here for guard duty."

Dean watched as emotions played over Aidan's features and found he liked the vulnerable ones best. He looked forward to getting to know him better—maybe even reading him at some point. He had a strong urge to reach out and hug Aidan again, but he reined it in. Instead he raised his hand in parting. "I'll see you tonight. Have fun," he encouraged the other man.

Aidan's cell phone chirped again. _Are you still coming tonight?_ Adam wanted to know. _We can cancel if you aren't feeling up to it...or if you want to spend more time with Dean. <3 _

"See you tonight," Aidan offered Dean, alongside a nod of his head. He gave his place over to the guard and took his leave. In the elevator, he finally read Adam's message and typed something back, but his head was elsewhere.

_Tonight's still on. Dean said he needs some time to think. He's scared._ It was past closing hours already, and Aidan didn't feel like working late just because they started late. After all, they had worked all night, anyway. _Sorry to have bailed on you earlier. I'll pick you up at home in an hour?_

_I bailed too, remember? Sounds great,_ Adam returned. _I'll pick up enough snacks and beer for both of us. Is he staying alone tonight?_

_He's going to be with friends,_ replied Aidan. He didn't know why he wasn't honest about Dean with Adam, but he quickly told himself that it would take more lying to ensure this man's safety. Dean was for now their only hope. With the evidence destroyed and no other leads to work with, he had provided him with a very good lead and the prospect of more. They couldn't afford to be sloppy with where he was, in the case that the Vigilante intercepted the message. _Are you okay?_

_Better now,_ Adam returned. _Thanks for asking. This case is hitting far too close to home for me. :( I shouldn’t have reacted as I did, though. It wasn’t very professional. See you soon, Aid._

\- - - - -

Dean settled back down in the chair next to Richard's bed. Richard was sound asleep, and Dean was terribly relieved. It must have been terrifying, falling like that, and his injuries obviously painful. He felt bad for scaring Lee away; he couldn't get the worried look in Lee's eyes out of his head. It was obvious he cared for Richard, and he was extremely attractive. Dean sat back with a sigh.

A shuffling noise from the curtain between the beds startled him. It was drawn slowly back by a disembodied hand to reveal an auburn-haired middle aged man in a hospital johnny and bathrobe. "I'm Martin," he told Dean. "Had my appendix removed this morning," he placed his hand carefully over the incision spot. 

"Hello, Martin," Dean raised a gloved hand and shook Martin's. "Are you in pain?"

"Some, some," Martin smiled, "but it's much better than it was last night when I checked in. I've been listening to you all talk," he confessed. "Hard to avoid it, honestly. I'm sorry about your friend. Say, d'you fancy a game of cards?"

Dean stayed in Richard's room chatting with Martin until 8 p.m. and the nurse came around to tell them both that visiting hours were over. Martin, it turned out, was also a professor, but at William & Mary. History. He and Richard hadn't had a chance to talk between their infirmities and the medication, but Dean could already tell the two of them would probably get along swimmingly.

"Will you be here tomorrow?" Dean asked the man, who nodded. 

"Until they kick me out," Martin smiled. "I'll keep an eye on your boyfriend for you."

_He's not my..._ The words were coming to Dean's lips, but he realized that is wasn't something he minded people thinking. "Goodnight, Martin. It was very nice meeting you," he told him, leaning over to lay a kiss to Richard's brow. Richard, zonked on pain meds, didn't stir. 

"Goodnight," Dean said to the man stationed outside of room 728, "thank you for keeping them safe."

The man nodded once and continued to look ahead of himself with a strict gaze that flustered the nurses into awkwardness whenever they passed by the room. Martin smiled when he turned around for a last look. Then it was just him and heading home.

Or so Dean thought. He had not taken into consideration that in the lobby, at the small health food restaurant for visitors, Lee was waiting for him.


	6. Apple Pie, Clouds and a Brontosaurus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee and Dean have a talk. Aidan spends the night at Dean's town house. What could possibly go wrong?

Lee got up as soon as he saw Dean approaching, making it impossible for the gloved man to bypass him. "Dean?" he called out. "Hi. Sorry for waiting for you here, but I just...what is happening?"

"Oh gosh, Lee," Dean was taken by surprise. "Were you waiting all this time? You should have come back up. Richard's been sleeping the whole time, and Aidan left hours ago. They just kicked me out. Visiting hours are over now. Listen, about earlier—"

"What did you do?" Lee did not beat around the bush. "I saw you put your hands on him and all of a sudden you were stumbling. I know that what I saw wasn't normal, so please don't try to make it something it's not. What is going on between you two?"

"Richard and I are best friends," Dean addressed the simpler of the two questions first. "There was more, years ago. Now we just share a house and a long history. In answer to your second question, I'm," he struggled for the right word, "a psychic. I can touch things and get information. When I held Richard's hand, I saw, through his eyes, how he got hurt earlier." He gestured towards an empty bench. "Do you still want to talk to me?"

"It was an accident, wasn't it?" Lee remembered that gut-wrenching feeling of seeing Richard with his hand casted and his head and chin wrapped up to hide the nastier wounds. He couldn't imagine there being any purpose in pushing a man that everyone had adored from the start down a flight of stairs, but if Dean implied he knew how he got hurt, then perhaps something wasn't right there. "Yes, I—" he chewed on his lip, "—I'd rather want to talk to Richard, but since he's given me the slip until he gets back...please. Can you tell me what happened?"

Dean wasn't sure how much was okay to share. "Well, sometimes," he told Lee, sitting down across from him, "I use my ability to help the police. I handle evidence, to see if it yields anything. I think I might have gotten a bit too close to the truth on one particular case, and," he took in a deep breath, "this was a warning for me to back off. I actually found a note in Richard's pocket to that effect. You didn't happen to see the accident, did you? Seen anyone around him?"

Lee shook his head with regret. "I wasn't there. You're saying someone pushed him, aren't you?" Vengeful anger welled up at that. Who would do such a thing? Richard was kind to everybody, sometimes frustratingly so, but it was impossible to think of anyone wanting to push him willingly. Lee unclenched his fists. He hadn't noticed until his nails started to dig into his skin. "I don't think there's surveillance in the halls, but it must have happened between classes. The halls are crowded then. Maybe someone accidentally bumped into him? It's hard to imagine anyone doing that on purpose to him. He's Richard."

"Yes," Dean smiled at Lee's words. "Yes he is. He's going to be okay. Broken wrist, concussion, bruising. If I know him, he'll want to come back to class as soon as possible. You guys have a holiday break coming up, don't you? His work ethic...well, it's astounding." He watched Lee intently for a moment longer, then said, "Thank you, by the way, for not asking me to prove myself."

"I know what I saw," said Lee. "Not that it makes me feel any better about it." He offered an encouraging smile. "You probably wonder why I am still here. He gave me quite the speech a few days ago, and you'd think I would keep my distance. _I_ would think I'd keep my distance. I tried. But I don't like having him at a distance, you see. Imagine thinking that when you just heard he fell down the stairs."

"He needs to know that," Dean was encouraged by Lee's words. "He's not psychic. You need to show him, Lee, or he won't know. Listen, I have had a really long day and I'm beat. I also have someone I need to let into my house at ten o'clock tonight. I hope I run into you here tomorrow. I told the cop guarding Richard's door to allow you in." He got up and extended his glove-covered hand for Lee to shake.

Lee took it. He hadn't expected to be dismissed so quickly by Dean, but then again he had waited a long time whilst assuming Dean to have time for him on his way out. "I'll visit him tomorrow," he said. "You should go home. My apologies." That said, he stepped outside and looked for a cab after a light bow to Dean.

It wasn't until he reached the taxi stand that Dean remembered he had left his own car at the precinct. "I need to take a cab myself," he told Lee. "I—well, we arrived in a bit of a rush. I got a ride in a police car." He double-checked that he keys were still indeed in his coat pocket. "I didn't mean to be short with you. We're still pretty new to the area and I still haven't quite figured out how long it actually takes to get anywhere."

"It's okay, I get it. Where do you live?" Lee asked him generously. Richard had never told him. "You can share the cab with me if it's on the way. I took a cab here from work, myself." He didn't enclose that when he had just heard the news, his hands had been shaking far too strongly for him be trusted navigating traffic.

"We live off M Street in Georgetown. I guess it's not too far from here," Dean wrinkled his forehead. "God, I feel so stupid. I haven't gotten out much yet. I should; I really should. This is a wonderful town."

"When he's better," Lee smiled, "I'll take you two out for a tour some time. Come on, hop in."

The taxi ended up dropping Dean off at his doorstep. While Lee didn't show it too obviously, he was both interested in coming inside for a cup of coffee and reluctant to impose at the same time. That was why he finally gave the cab driver new directions before Dean could ask anything of the like, told him goodnight, and left him standing on the curb.

Dean wasn't sure if Richard actually wanted Lee to know where he lived, but it was too late to worry about that now. He only hoped his conversation with Lee would help Richard's chances instead of hurting him. Lee was really good-looking and clearly quite smart. It was no surprise Richard gravitated to him.

Their house was dark, and Aidan wasn't due for another hour. Rather than cower outside, Dean unlocked the door and went inside, double-bolting the door and flicking on lights as he went. "Hello?" he called out into the stillness of the house, immediately feeling like an idiot. He went to the kitchen and put on a kettle to boil for tea, then went to the living room to light the electric fireplace and turn on the stereo to a Christmas CD, which immediately made him feel better. 

The moments waiting for the water to boil were spent deciding on a spot near the fireplace to put their Christmas tree. He wanted to surprise Richard by having one set up before he got home from the hospital. They had never had a tree before, but this year, it just felt right. He sat down in front of his computer and went to the Washington Post website.

One headline in particular caught his eye: _Pornographer Begs for More Jail Time_.

The story was about Max Webster, who had been caught with copious amounts of child pornography a few years prior and was due to be released from prison. His sentence hadn't changed and as of today, Webster would have been out on the streets. 

_Watch your back, Max,_ Dean thought to himself. _The Vigilante’s not messing around._

He found himself dozing in an armchair by the time the doorbell rang.

Aidan had, quite honestly, been absent-minded throughout the night. Adam had tried to keep him entertained by continually asking him questions and his opinion on things. Two old friends from university, around for a few days, kept chatting about the most recent innovations in their field. It should have excited him, but it didn't. At nine, he apologized and left.

Adam had run up to him and asked him if this was about Dean and Richard, and the threat made against them. "There's nothing more you can do," he had said, referring to the guard at Richard's door, "I'm sure it was nothing but a warning because he is getting scared." Adam had a point, but did that make Aidan feel like Dean was safe now?

Not really.

Aidan shivered. It was cold outside, but, for his own dignity's sake, he had spent forty minutes outside Dean's apartment, not ringing a doorbell because he was early. So when he finally did, Aidan craved tea and warmth.

"Hi," he said with a voice betraying he was catching a cold, "you look sleepy. I woke you, didn't I?"

"I was napping in my chair," Dean confessed. "How long have you been out here? Did you walk? You're shivering," he noted. "I have a fire going. Come in and sit. Do you want some hot chocolate? Richard might have some hard liquor if you prefer that." Dean gestured towards the inviting living room.

"Ah, just a few minutes," easy words brushed off further concern, although Aidan did respond unmistakably to the warmth. "Have you got any tea?" he wondered, and sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace before looking around the apartment.

It was cozy. Lots of things were still boxed up—one of these two had more stuff than they needed—but there was character to the living room already. Still, Aidan got the feeling that Dean and Richard were still deciding about whether they were going to stay. "Nothing much happened, right?"

"No, no," Dean called from the kitchen. "Things were peaceful. I spoke with Richard's roommate for a bit. When I got downstairs, that Lee character was waiting for me. He wanted to see how Richard was. I wish you hadn't chased him away. Richard really likes him."

Aidan laughed loud enough for Dean to hear him. "He'll like him more now, trust me." He rubbed his hands together, gradually warming up. It was remarkable how, outside of the office, there was none of that freak show stuff that had amused Aidan so much at their first meeting. "With sugar, by the way. Lots of it. Thanks. That Lee guy's quite a good looking guy."

"God, yes. And tall," Dean added with an impish shrug. "Can't fight your genes, can you?" He handed Aidan a cup of tea, and Aidan noticed he didn't wear his gloves at home. "I hope three packets of sugar was enough," he told him, admiring the way Aidan looked in the warm glow of the fire. His day's growth made him look rugged, but tired. Dean had to suppress his desire to reach out and touch his cheek.

"I'm tall," Aidan shrugged, but with a warm, almost boyish smile. "Enough about Lee and Richard now." He sat straighter. "Tell me about yourself, your—that thing you do. If you want to, of course. I brought books to read if you're tired or you want to do something else than talk. I'm here for your protection, after all." He gladly took the sweetened tea. Three was wonderful—as was the heat of the cup.

"There's a lot I could tell you. What would you like to know, specifically?" Dean sat down in the armchair opposite Aidan. Both afforded them the benefit of the fire's glow. "Why..." Dean started to ask, but then paused, as if reconsidering.

Of course, Aidan wanted to know why, but he decided to leave it for now. "Well, you touch an object or a person and it shows things to you, right? But how do you get what you need? That bracelet, you could have easily seen how it was made, even where the material came from, but instead you saw something else, you saw what mattered."

"Objects tend to carry energy with them, even if we can't see it with the naked eye," Dean told him. "Like a heat signal or a memory. What generally comes to me when I touch an object or a person are strong emotions associated with that object. It's not always bad things. I was going to ask you why you haven't asked me to read anything of yours. Would you like me to try?"

"There aren't many strong emotions associated with me," Aidan chuckled while his hands wrapped around the cup. "Though I am becoming curious. That means you can't read all of the memories connected to something, is that right? Not that it's an open book, of course," he quickly added, "but does that mean the strongest emotions always win out?"

"It's random, honestly," Dean shrugged. "Take the flowers, for instance. When you guys brought just the one over, I saw something specific. A funeral, from a little boy's point of view. When I stuck my hand into that burned pile of them, it...well, it _expanded_ to include more. Perhaps each flower held a different memory. I don't know. And I don't understand why it happens, or why I see what I see at any given time," Dean said quietly. "I want so badly to be able to help you, Aidan," he looked down at his hands, clasped self-consciously on his lap, "but I don't have any concrete truths or facts for you. I know you like that sort of thing...but what I do—well, it doesn't come with certainty built in."

"Yet it's all we have at the moment." A lost look met Dean. "Even if it's not an exact science. I must admit, I'd really like to see what goes on in that head of yours while you're reading something. Neurologically, you must be a walking miracle. And because evidence was destroyed, and you helped us, your friend is now in the hospital. That wouldn't have happened if you said no. I feel responsible, Dean. You don't need to read me to prove yourself. I believe you."

Dean nodded, accepting Aidan's word. He sat back, a soft smile playing on his face.

"Did you bring a bag?" he wondered. "You were going to sleep here, right?"

Aidan pointed to the hall, where a duffel bag was propped against the wall. "Sleeping bag, books, tooth brush. I'm good to go. Did you have plans tonight? I woke you when you were napping. If you want to nap, don't let me stop you. There's this book about cellular biology that I'm reading, and it's incredibly interesting."

"So _that's_ what you do for fun on a Friday night," Dean rolled his eyes. "Are you working tomorrow?"

"Are you mocking my books?" Aidan raised an eyebrow. "I'm telling you, it _is_ interesting. Certainly more interesting than going out and paying a lot of money to kill a lot of brain cells and partially impair your hearing, coming back smelling of sweat and smoke, and wishing you hadn't been pressured into staying that extra hour. Books are your friends, O'Gorman. And I'm off for the weekend. We'll figure out tomorrow morning what to do about your security, okay?"

"I don't go to clubs," Dean set him straight. "Too many people. And my gloves freak them out. It hasn't been cool to wear gloves indoors since Michael Jackson stopped doing it in 1987 or so."

"I bet you could go to the kinky clubs," Aidan pondered aloud.

"I...uh..." Dean sputtered. "I'm not even sure how to respond to that."

Even in the fire's glow, Aidan could tell he was blushing furiously.

Aidan grinned obnoxiously. "People wouldn't be freaked out at your gloves in there. But you'd be freaked out by them, wouldn't you be? Don't be. They're just people who dress differently and act a little differently. A dorm mate at university was into that kind of stuff. I'm freaking you out too now, aren't I?"

"I'm more pleasantly surprised than freaked out," Dean admitted, tapping his fingers nervously. "I hadn't expected you knew anything about the seedy, depraved underbelly of the city."

"I know a lot of things. Doesn't change that I still prefer my books. It's all knowledge, you see. Everyone moves a different way because of reasons, or does what he does for existing reasons. The world is out there to learn from. It's a pity nobody truly _looks_ at it anymore." Aidan shifted to the front of the couch. His eyes sparkled with a deep love for what he said. "But you look. You don't even notice it, I don't think so, but you must look. There's a story behind everything. Don't you ever go out and look at someone and wonder what their story is like? That's what I do, Dean. That dorm mate, he was into all sorts of funny things, but he had a heart of gold. Never hurt a fly. Why was he attracted to that scene? Because he wanted something different, something to draw strength from and recharge him for the everyday dullness of his classes."

Dean watched Aidan raptly as he spoke. "You have a lot of passion, Aidan," he observed. "I could listen to you talk all night."

A comfortable silence spread between them instead. Aidan watched Dean, observed the way he moved. All at once he suddenly stuck out his hand to offer to him. "Try me. I'd like to see what you pick up from everything I've collected in observations over the years. Don't worry, I'm sure it won't be Danny, my old room mate.

Dean looked down at Aidan's hand as if he'd never seen a hand before. "I—I shouldn't start with your hand," he suggested. "An item, something personal. That's best." _With the feelings I have for you, it might be a mistake,_ was what he should have said. "It's less complicated that way," is what came out.

"No, my hand is okay," the other man misconstrued it as Dean not wanting to know the most personal things about him. Aidan was strangely okay with whatever he found out.

Dean took in a long, slow breath and sat forward again, reaching for Aidan's hand with his left. It was still a little cold from being outside. "Your hand's cold," he stupidly observed, putting his right hand over Aidan's.

"Sorry," Aidan smiled apologetically.

Aidan wondered if it was deemed more considerate of him if he closed his eyes. Well, he didn't want to. "Can you still see me?" he asked at Dean's inattentive eyes. The vision was already trickling in.

There was a scent of cinnamon and apple. A kitchen table, with the sun shining in and his mother baking a pie. Young Aidan's dad would be back today, and his mother had prompted him to draw something. Aidan hated drawing—the kids in his class always made stupid stick figures and unicorns and blue-colored clouds; apparently they had never looked at the sky before—but he liked dinosaurs, and he liked science. So had crayoned all of the sky blue, with a few gauzy clouds, and a brontosaurus.

He didn't care about the drawing. He just wanted his dad before he left to fight another man's war in another man's country. It was a beautiful day, that June afternoon.

Apple pie with cinnamon.

It was the last time he saw his father.

Dean opened his eyes slowly. They were glassy with unshed tears. "Oh, Aidan," he slipped from the chair and onto his knees in front of Aidan, bringing the other man's hand to his mouth to kiss. "I'm so, so sorry."

Aidan blinked, sinking down to the floor opposite him. An electric current buzzed pleasantly at the touch of lips against the back of his hand and he would have turned it around to see how it would feel to have Dean kiss the inside of it, were it not that he was confused. "What is it?" he wondered. "What did you see?"

"I saw your mother, baking," Dean told him. "In a bright yellow kitchen. The air smelled like apple pie. You were drawing a picture of a dinosaur for...for your dad. He was leaving to be a soldier. Was it the Persian Gulf? You were so little, Aidan." Dean felt as if he had invaded Aidan's privacy. "Wish I could have seen you," he turned Aidan's hand around and kissed the inside of his wrist. "I'll just bet you were adorable."

"Ah," Aidan smiled softly. "That was a beautiful day. That's how I always remember him, you know. Dinosaurs and a sunny sky. And pie, some of the t—" But his speech short-circuited at a more lingering kiss to his wrist. "Dean," Aidan whispered, "that's..." a weak spot, that's what it was, and an incredible turn-on.

Dean's stomach gave a welcome flip when Aidan's eyes turned soft. He kissed the spot again, and again. "Should I stop?" he wondered—a challenge. " Because I don't want to stop."

Large brown eyes queried whether they were both reading into this the same way. Aidan's trained and cultivated doubt was certain however. "I don't want you to stop," whispered he. He should be thinking about consequences instead of letting this continue, his mind supplied. Aidan didn't want to think about consequences either.

"I haven't kissed anyone in a while," Dean confessed, raising a hand to cup Aidan's chin. "I might have forgotten how. But, I really want to kiss you, Aidan."

"Put your gloves back on." Aidan smiled a little nervously, a swarm of impulses originating in his chest. Adrenaline, he recognized it to be. Fight or flight. Being afraid—but in such a good way. "I need you here with me."

He waited only until the leather again wrapped around the hands before picking up Dean's hand in his own and offering the same treatment, his mouth against tender leather and the simple idea of that ratcheting up his heartbeat.

"I'm here," Dean shuddered as goose bumps rose in the path of Aidan's lips. Even though he was already on his knees, he felt he couldn't stay upright for much longer. He let out an embarrassing noise—half groan, half sigh—pulled Aidan's face towards his own, and kissed him. 

Not in a million years had Aidan assumed that this was written in the stars for them. Sure enough, Dean was attractive and not an asshole about it, and he smelled good and turned out to be a lot nicer than Aidan had expected, but Aidan had made a bit of a mess of things, himself. He had been defensive around him and was the reason his best friend, once lover, was in the hospital. He didn't think he deserved this kind of attention, not from this man.

But here they were, with Aidan's hands choosing their own path to pull the blond man closer and his reason leaving him entirely. He drew in a breath, parted his lips, and ventured for a tentative taste. That carefulness was swiftly abandoned when he realized they both wanted it, and more too. Aidan soon had one hand tangled tightly in Dean's short hair—not painfully so, just that he stayed close—and rose to his knees to tower ever so slightly above Dean for the better angle.

When they pulled apart for air, Dean hastily apologized. "I'm so sorry, Aidan....I don't know what came over me. It's too soon, right?" But his hands still sought to creep under the hem of Aidan's shirt.

Aidan's muddled mind was still able to discern that sign. "Don't lie," he shook his head, his eyes locked onto Dean's lips. "It's not, not unless you've got other things on your mind than what we're doing right now." He easily moved into Dean's personal space again and nipped tentatively at his lips, trying to coax another kiss from them.

"No," Dean hastily explained. "I _do_ want this. I've wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw your gorgeous, grumpy face get out of that police cruiser the other day." He kissed him to emphasize his claim. "But today at the hospital, when you defended me...that cemented it. I was terrified you were going to resent me."

A finger pressed against his lips to hush him up, and Aidan did look mildly confused by the confession. He had been dreadful to Dean at first, so he didn't understand. But he also wasn't interested in any declarations that might be a little too much for him at the moment. He wanted to kiss this man and just see where that would take him—not promise things he had yet to consider. "You're kissing me, and I'm kissing you," he said. "I like that. It's not complicated." 

For the roughly ninety minutes he made out with Aidan in front of the fire, Dean didn't have a care in the world. Aidan didn't seem to mind the gloves. In fact, he encouraged them, as if he liked the feel of them on his skin. They didn't take off any clothing, despite the growing warmth and their obvious arousal. It seemed Aidan wanted to take it slow, and Dean was all right with that.

"I should sleep," Dean said finally, regretfully, eyes hungrily admiring Aidan's kiss-swollen lips. "Where would you like to bunk? You have three choices. Richard's bed, the couch in the den, or with me? I have a queen."

Aidan would go with Dean if he had faith in himself. But he was a man who hungered for more and wasn't sure whether that was such a smart idea, because for once he couldn't afford to fuck up. This case— _his_ case—depended on him. What if he handled this wrongly and lost Dean's cooperation? But oh, he couldn't get the idea of sleeping in the same bed out of his head. And if they would kiss, wearing their thin night wear and separated by not much less, he didn't think he could stop it there.

"What do you think?" he took the cowardly way out. Anything Dean said would be good with him, as long as he didn't make the call himself.

Dean smiled, as if considering the best possible version of how the night could go, then he sighed. "I think I should probably set you up in Richard's room," he concluded. "But, I expect you to immediately jump up and run to my aid if I should call for you."

Then Aidan hoped for him to call him, but he simply smiled and nodded. "Absolutely." He reached for Dean, pulled him in for a goodnight kiss that lasted until well after they both parted, got to his knees, wincing at the stiffness in his joints, and said, "Lead the way."

Richard's room turned out to be spacious and tidy. It was exactly how he had expected it. Even the bed was made. "I'll leave the door open," Aidan looked around and ended with his eyes on Dean, wishing to draw him in and onto the bed, "just in case."

"Is it warm enough for you, in here?" Dean wondered, hugging himself against the chill. "Richard likes his room to be cold when he sleeps."

"Cool is good." Aidan kissed him a final time because he couldn't get enough of it—and because he knew that in the morning they probably wouldn't be so casual about this still. "Sleep well. Is it okay if I don't set an alarm?"

"I'm not going to," Dean agreed with him. "I'm not allowed into the hospital to see Richard until noon anyway. And I'm beat...really beat," he confided, raising his gloved hand to briefly touch Aidan's face one more time. "I'm so glad you're here," he repeated.

Dean's body was singing, literally singing and awakening to sensations he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. He floated rather than walked to his own bedroom and fell into bed with a happy sigh. 

In the other room, Aidan sat on the bed wide-eyed. It was starting to sink in, as he cast his eyes down and acknowledged the arousal that was there. Dean, timid Dean who had come in and taken over his job at first, he had gone and done _that_. Aidan absently touched his lips. He curled up under the blankets, tugged at the switch to put out the light, and wondered if Richard minded if he touched himself while in the other man's bed. Not that he'd tell him, of course, but Aidan's body was strung taut in such wonderful but only specifically curable ways.

He wondered if he should get out of bed and join Dean. Thinking about how those hands encased in those supple, soft gloves would feel touching him _there_ made him shiver with want. Decision made, he got up and walked down the hall to Dean's open bedroom door. 

But to his disappointment, Dean already lay curled up on his side and covers pulled to his chin, breathing deeply in slumber. His discarded gloves were lain carefully within reach on the bedside table. His lips were curled in a soft smile.

Aidan looked at that peaceful scene for a while. He longed strongly, but he didn't have the heart. "Good night," he whispered to the silence and turned around. Aidan stopped halfway in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. It was a pity that someone so gentle was cursed with an ability so cruel, and he felt sorry he kept having to ask him to relive other people's deaths.

Lying down in Richard's bed, Aidan slowly wrapped a hand around himself and made sure not to make a mess as he let out a small sigh and took little time to come.

\- - - - -

When Aidan opened his eyes, the smell of bacon wafted through the air and he could hear Dean singing along—somewhat off-tune—to an Elvis Presley Christmas song. The clock on his bedside table read 10:25 a.m.

In the kitchen, he found Dean taking bacon from a tray with a pair of tongs and laying the strips out on paper towels. He paused to shake his hips in time to the music, then set back to it. He studied his handiwork, then picked up one piece and popped it into his mouth, moaning sinfully at the taste.

The noise brought back all of the previous night's happenings. Aidan sat down at the table quietly and followed him with amusement until Dean happened to turn around. Then Aidan waved at him and grinned, "Don't stop for me. So you like bacon that much, hm?"

Interesting. For some unknown reason, which should have been odd, because Aidan liked knowledge that he could use in practice, but this bit was just nice to know. "I didn't make you wait, did I?"

"Oh _man_. Caught red-handed with bacon and Elvis," Dean blushed furiously. "I am _so_ white trash. I also made some toast and eggs over easy. Would you like some?" 

Dean's gloves were nowhere to be seen.

"I don't mind the bacon," Aidan shrugged and encouraged him to carry on. His phone had received a couple of Adam's messages overnight and he was considering opening them. No, not right now. "I hardly get to eat greasy food in the morning. It takes so much time," and he was notorious for oversleeping, "so having you make bacon and sharing it suits me wonderfully."

"The secret to bacon," Dean put a generous amount of slices on a plate for Aidan, "is to use the oven. No messy greasy splashing. Just thirty minutes at 400 degrees and it comes out perfect. You just have to blot it on some paper towels and enjoy." He scooped two eggs and a couple pieces of rye toast onto Aidan's plate. "What are you drinking? Milk? Juice? Something hot?" 

"Tea?" Aidan didn't want to tell Dean that if preparing bacon in a frying pan already took too much time, then using an oven really wasn't going to work. Instead he waited patiently for his food and noticed how much the exchange between them reminded him of the morning after a one-night-stand—only then without the sex. They were agreeable, yet neither wanted to start about last night's kissing. "You want to visit Richard in a bit?" he wondered.

"Of course," Dean placed a mug of hot water in front of him and plopped in a tea bag, "but I thought we could have a slow, relaxing breakfast first. I get the feeling," he sat down with his own plate of food and pointedly placed a handful of sugar packets next to Aidan's mug, "that you don't relax often." Dean picked up a piece of toast and dipped it into his egg, taking a bite while it was still hot and perfect. "I had fun last night," he said around the food in his mouth. "Would you like to stay over again tonight?"

Packet after packet disappeared into the tea, until it was more sugar water with a mild tea flavor than the other way around. When Aidan drank from it, a mask of bliss appeared on his face. "Ah, that's good." He watched Dean as he ate. The little manners amused him. Aidan thought he could watch him eat for an hour and not get tired.

But at the question he snapped out of it. "Me too," he dared admit. "And I will, if you want me to. Richard doesn't mind it when I occupy his bed?" _Don't you?_

"Well, if he comes home, you certainly aren't going to be allowed to sleep in his bed again!" Dean grinned. "But, to be honest, whether he comes home or not, I was hoping you'd want to stay in _my_ bed this evening." Dean's blue eyes met his, honest and hopeful. "I feel awful for falling asleep on you like that last night. I feel like I missed out on something pretty amazing."

Aidan smirked around his fork. "You were gone quite fast, yes. I didn't want to wake you. Perhaps if we started sooner?" It was both a question and a challenge. It was the weekend and, driven as he was to catching the asshole that had made these threats against Dean and Richard, he also noticed that he needed the rest. "I don't have plans for the day. Well, I meant to be reading up on some things and watch a movie, but those aren't plans set in stone."

"I was hoping," Dean instinctively reached for Aidan's hand, but pulled back when he realized he wasn't wearing his gloves, "that maybe you could suggest—or show me—a place where I could buy a Christmas tree. I want to put one up this year. Today. Richard and I haven't had a tree for well over a decade, but this year...well, I'm just feeling like one. Would you want to help?"

"Oh no, I never buy Christmas trees. Do you want me to ask Adam for you? He loves Christmas. Or I bet the chief's wife knows. She tends to get an ornate one and invites us over every Christmas. I've gone once." It figured that Dean was the kind to love Christmas. Aidan found it typical yet endearing. "You mean, you've known him for more than ten years? How long do you two go back?"

"We met the day I graduated college," Dean told him, sweeping some crumbs onto his palm and piling them on his napkin. "I was twenty-two. I'm...thirty-seven now, so...yeah, fifteen years. Wow," he smiled fondly. "Neither of us was in a good place when we met. We vastly improved one another's lives."

Dean drained the last of his orange juice. "I like Adam and Gwen, of course I do, but truthfully, I'd rather hang out with you today. I though you might want to help me decorate. I could make cookies, too," he smiled entreatingly. "Oatmeal? Peanut butter? What's your poison?"

Aidan scowled. "Please don't make me decorate. Look, I'm really glad nobody told you too much about me, but there's this habit..." He was a neat freak. Any motes of dust or things standing askew made him twitch until he either fixed it or made sure he'd get it out of his sight—and then that needed five minutes of distraction to really work. The mess that came from Christmas trees was dreadful. "I just don't like shifting things around. But you can make cookies. Seriously, you make cookies?" He could have mentioned that it wasn't very manly, but Aidan's thoughts were elsewhere. "Chocolate chip?"

"Mmm, yes," Dean agreed. "Those are Richard's favorite. I always make a ton. But I gotta tell you...I'm an even messier baker than I am a decorator. It's just," he grew serious, "it's been awhile since we lived anywhere where it gets cold enough to snow. I was really feeling the holiday spirit this year. But if it's not your thing, I totally respect that, Aidan. But I hope you'll come over anyway, tonight. After I've cleaned up, of course. I really want you to."

Dean took their empty dishes to the sink, glad to see Aidan had enjoyed what he'd made for breakfast. He felt ashamed that he'd laid his heart on the line like that—inviting Aidan along on what were obviously domestic, fluffy ideas of fun. He was having a hard time separating Aidan the man from Aidan the little boy drawing pictures in his mother's kitchen.

For once with enough clutter in his mind's space to overlook that, Aidan accepted the offer gracefully. He didn't mind dropping Dean off somewhere or even venturing along to get the tree, nor was he troubled by the prospect of Christmas. It was a bit of a silly tradition, he thought, and yet there was something about eggnog and the atmosphere. As long as the television remained off. God, he hated the television with a passion on Christmas days and the days that lead up to it.

"I'll drive you to the hospital and I'll be back tonight," Aidan offered. He canted his head sideways. "So where have you lived? Something tells me you never stick around in one place very long. Is it because of your hands?"

Dean chuckled at Aidan's wording. "Yes, in a roundabout way, although it's mostly because of _me,_ " he admitted. "I have a way of drawing unwanted, negative attention. More than a few times it's affected Richard's work. We met in Connecticut. We moved that fall to Miami, then San Francisco, then Kansas City. We spent the last few years in Las Vegas, which as actually kinda cool because most people were more transient than we were, but the job market wasn't great for Richard. He put out some feelers and had always wanted to live in D.C. I'm trying hard not to fuck it up for him...and already I've failed spectacularly," Dean sniffed and turned back to the sink, busying himself with the dishes so Aidan couldn't see the tears in his eyes. "You can understand why I want to make our house look like a home," he added. "I want Richard to understand that I want this permanence for him. He deserves it. He's such a good man."

Aidan looked away. He understood, of course. Hadn't he been the same, trying to push Dean away because whenever Aidan looked at him he saw something that threatened him? That was not the point. They were just friends now, Richard and Dean, but they had been lovers before that. Whenever he saw them interact, he saw how many traces of that relationship were still there between them. It hadn't bothered him before, but it bothered him now.

"We'll find him and we'll bring him to justice," Aidan said. "We'll pretend you're off the case, and I'd recommend getting off the case entirely if it weren't for your importance. The Vigilante doesn't turn on people who haven't committed grave crimes. You're safe here." He didn't want Dean to go. 

"Whatever it takes to keep him safe," Dean put the clean, rinsed plates in the dish drainer. "I've been very lucky, having him as my friend all these years. He's borne all the shit that comes with that relationship so graciously. I'm not sure I would have been so patient. Aidan," he turned around, "I want to make something clear, okay? Richard and me...we aren't a couple. We're close, make no mistake, and we do love each other. But I want you to know that, in case I hadn't been clear before, there is no competition. I'm _single._ "

Aidan parted his lips to speak—he didn't know what to say. Partly awkward and partly pleased, he closed his mouth and curved it into a smile. "And he's trying to make it work with Lee, of course." Encouraging that relationship only furthered Aidan's own needs. He shook his head and stretched. Relatively comfortable morning talks aside, Aidan still thought about kissing Dean again. There were so many things he could be focusing on, but he was still a man, and the baser ones had a tendency to be persistent. "I—we should—" he grinned stupidly, "—we should get going. You've got my number, just call me when you need me."

It's a date, was the hidden message behind his words, unsaid because Aidan didn't like to call anything romantic in nature by its name.

"Listen," Dean wiped his hands on a dish towel, "I'm going to take a shower and head over to the hospital for a bit. If Richard's going to be in another night, I'll be coming back this afternoon to decorate and do some baking. If he's coming home, I'll probably stick around with him until then. Either way, I want you to come over. Whenever you want. Meanwhile, feel free to use Richard's bathroom, shower...whatever," Dean offered. He leaned back against the counter, studying him for a moment. "You can bring some case work, if you like," he added, before leaning over to kiss his forehead and walking out of the room.

Well, what was _that_ about anyway? A kiss to the forehead, after the way they had kissed last night? Aidan reached for Dean's wrist and tugged him back, mindful not to touch his skin. "Come here," and he drew Dean down for a mouth-to-mouth, _proper_ kiss. Somehow Aidan felt jittery when he inhaled Dean's musk and he found both his knees on either side of Dean's legs.

"Mmmhm," Dean groaned into the kiss, "I'll never leave the house if you insist on being so damn sexy, Officer Turner."

"Mission accomplished," Aidan grinned up wolfishly. He patted Dean's behind. "But get going, now. We'll continue this tonight." He was proud of himself—this was how it was supposed to be. Certainly not a weak kiss to the forehead as a promise for more. He got up himself, gathered his own belongings and kept glancing in Dean's direction. Aidan intended to shower at home and then spend a lot of time making sure he was impeccable. Not that he ever wasn't. He also intended to check up on Richard before that. "Ready?"

Dean had taken a cursory shower and changed into some jeans and an emerald green sweater. "As can be," he shrugged. “Can you take me to the precinct? I left my car there last night.”

Nobody called Aidan sappy, and so he did his best not to look at the green sweater and how it looked on Dean. Truly, he needed to stop assessing everything about the man with his dick. "Yeah, sure. I tried to tidy the bed. You're sure Richard doesn't mind, right? I really planned to just sleep on the couch." Aidan held open the door for Dean and stepped aside for him to lock it.

It was such an easy place to break into, he noticed with bile in his throat.

After Aidan started the car and drove them into traffic, Dean spoke, "I know what you're thinking, Aidan. And you're right. Richard and I need better security. But from what we've learned of The Vigilante, he doesn't tend to attack people in their homes, does he?" he squeezed Aidan's hand with his glove-covered one. "And you'll be with me tonight. I'm assuming you carry a gun."

"I've never had to shoot someone with it. Besides, I never expected a threat to get this personal. You have been with us for only a few days. That means we've got a mole, Dean. That's...not good, even if it isn't him in person but a third man, and not just for you and Richard." Aidan pursed his lips. "I don't really like to think about that. The sooner we have this guy locked up, the better." He watched cars buzz by outside without attachment to the world around him. The hospital wasn't far, and they arrived faster than he expected. "Besides, sorry to state the obvious, but I think being around you tonight might only distract us further."

"Well," Dean leaned over and kissed him gently after they'd pulled into a parking space in the precinct’s underground garage, "call me selfish, but I'm looking forward to the distraction. Thanks for the ride.” He pushed a button on his keychain and his car chirped nearby.

“Don’t park in the hospital’s parking garage,” Aidan cautioned him. “Park on the street, even if you have to circle a few times.”

“I promise,” Dean caressed Aidan’s unshaven cheek with his gloved hand. He kissed him again. "Aidan, I..." he paused, not sure if he should finish. He did. "I'm glad I met you. Even if I'm messing with everything you hold dear—and I'm really sorry for that. I like you, Aid. A lot."

Aidan grinned. "You just called me Aid." That was something only Adam—who had known him for years—did. It encouraged rather than offended Aidan. He leaned in and kissed Dean, light and yet lazy in his reluctance to pull away. "I'm not babysitting you either. God no. But I put you in this position, so that makes it my business too. When you're walking back to your car, you call me, and you keep talking until you lock the door of your car, got it? That's not babysitting, that's me ensuring that I still get to see you tonight."

“You will,” Dean promised, walking away backwards and raising a hand in goodbye. He couldn’t stop smiling.


	7. A Walk in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets the house ready for Christmas. Aidan grows more concerned about Dean's safety and decides to spend another night.

Dean floated on a cloud rather than walked to the hospital elevator. He felt dazed, warm, content. And he couldn't keep from smiling. Was Aidan too good to be true? 

He raised a hand in greeting to the officer outside Richard's room, comforted by his presence.

Martin was sitting in the chair next to Richard's bed. "He's not been feeling well," he told Dean, eyeing Richard sadly. Richard's face was pale under his dark hair and his eyes were closed. "He was throwing up last night. The doctor said it's from the concussion, but that doesn't make it easier to watch...or listen to."

"Did they give him anything?" Dean asked, leaning in to take Richard's hand in his gloved one. 

"Something for the nausea," Martin frowned. "He's been sleeping ever since. Trust me. It's a good thing."

And, just like that, Dean's mood fell.

Martin tried to offer him a heartening smile. Dean appeared to have come for no reason, and nobody had deemed it fit to warn him beforehand. 

"Dean?" called a familiar voice. "Dean! Hi!" Adam looked at him hopelessly from the barred doorway. "They won't let me near him. Please tell them it's fine."

Dean gave a wave of assent to the guard at his door and Adam came inside room 728. "Why didn't you just flash your badge?" he wondered with a smile. "Surely they must know you." He hadn't left Richard's side. "Richard's having a rough day, I've been informed, or I'm sure he'd be happy to know you've come to check on him." He turned to Martin. "And this is—"

"—Adam Brown!" Martin practically squeaked. "My god, it's been nearly ten years and you haven't changed a bit! Adam was my student at university. He was in one of the first classes I taught as a true professor."

"You were always a true professor," Adam countered, very pleasantly surprised. He passed Dean to vigorously shake hands with him. "I can't believe you still know my name. There were so many students in your class! Oh, but I remember you. How have you been? I mean," he gestured, "aside from me meeting you again in a hospital, of course. Do you still teach?" He smiled knowingly. "Are they still as unruly as we were back then?"

Adam then remembered whom he had come here for in the first place. He looked over at Richard as he addressed Dean. "I heard he fell down the stairs. Pushed, they say. I couldn't make it yesterday, I'm sorry, but I'm here now. Is everything going to be all right? Aidan said that it upset you. Please tell me you're not thinking about quitting like he mentioned."

Aidan had coached Dean what to say. Although he really wanted to tell Adam that, if anything, his conviction had strengthened, what came out of Dean mouth was, "I think so, Adam. This warning," he gestured at Richard, "well, the message was received loud and clear. I won't endanger Richard any further, or risk my own life. I'm afraid you guys will have to continue without me. I'm sorry."

Martin sensed that Dean's words were having a negative effect on Adam and he thought a reunion wasn't as important as being ruthlessly shoved down the stairs into the hospital, so he settled back with a book to see how things played out before he got back into the conversation.

"I see," Adam sat down sadly. "I understand. It's just...well, you've been a real help to us and I hope you would reconsider, but I understand." He watched Richard's slow, deep breathing that signaled he was too far into his sleep to wake up at their talk. "It's incomprehensible someone would do this, and to Richard at that. He has nothing to do with it. How is he?"

"I've only just gotten here myself," Dean admitted to Adam. "But Martin here says he had a rough night."

"It's true," another voice said from behind them. "I'm James Nesbitt, Mr. Armitage's doctor. I'm assuming one of you is Dean?"

Dean raised his hand in greeting.

"Richard was asking for you last night. He was feeling very poorly, but it's not atypical with a concussion," Dr. Nesbitt explained, "the dizziness, nausea. But his tests are good. He'll be back on his feet in a few days, good as new." He patted Dean on the shoulder, made some notes on Richard's chart, and left the room. He was gone as soon as he had come.

"Now you see why I have to stop," Dean told Adam. "I've done enough damage already."

"I'm sorry." Adam's words were sad. "He had nothing to do with this. I had hoped to find him awake. Unfortunately I am also here to take his statement. But I'm sure I can come back another time." He smiled timidly at Martin. "If I smuggle you in a cup of coffee, what'd you say to catching up while we wait and see when Richard wakes?"

Dean, meanwhile, remained protectively in the seat next to Richard's uninjured arm, his eye studying his injured house mate for signs of consciousness. 

"He only fell asleep good and proper an hour ago or so," Martin explained. "We should let him rest."

"Yes, yes of course," Dean agreed. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "I can spring for the coffee if you want to run, Adam?"

Adam shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Is it okay if I stick around? It's a lot better here than in the office. It still smells like charred wood and plastic in there. It's not a pleasant smell." He reached for a chair and lifted it instead of dragging it over, and took a look at Dean. Leaning forward, he reached for Dean's gloved hands and asked with concern, "How are you doing, really? It must be taxing to have all of this happen in your first week with us. Is there anything we can do? Extra security, or do you need help finding you something else? Anything?"

Adam's warmth touched Dean. He had felt horrible the day before. How was he to know Adam was intimately involved with the case? "Well," Dean brightened, "there's one thing I could use help with, but it doesn't have anything to do with the case at all. I'd like to buy a Christmas tree for my house. A live one. I'm new to the area and really have no idea where to go nearby. I wanted to surprise Richard by having the place decorated for the holidays when he gets home. Can you point me in the right direction?"

"Oh," Adam racked his brain, visibly pleased they could talk about something else than the ugly truth in the room, "I always get mine off Wisconsin Ave. It's not too expensive, and they've got all sizes. That's a really nice gesture for when he comes home. You should get freshly baked food, to top it off. Bread, cookies, that sort of thing. It'll patch him right up." He looked at Richard, then back at Dean. "You've known each other a long time, haven't you?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Fifteen years or so. I think if we hadn't met each other, we both would have respectively crashed and burned—if you know what I mean," Dean slipped off his glove and took Richard's hand in his own.

"You and I think alike," he told Adam. "I was hoping to involve Aidan in some baking and decorating this afternoon, but I guess it's just not his thing," he shrugged. "I personally can't think of anything more fun than eating raw cookie dough and putting up ornaments."

Adam blinked in confusion for a second, before bursting into a joyful chuckle. "Oh, that's—wow, you suggested he join you in baking and decorating? Oh my. I thought you and he didn't get along? Aidan decorating." He grinned. "That man is the grumpiest guy in the world if you force him to decorate things. Don't get me wrong, he likes nicely decorated places, but only if they're mathematically precise. He has—how do I call it without making him sound bad?—well, he has this compulsive, ah, necessity." He reached over and patted Dean's shoulder kindly. "Don't take it personal. That's just who he is. Though I bet you startled him when you asked that of him."

"Startled?" Dean bit his lip. "No...but I could tell he was looking for a nice way to decline. We _are_ getting along better though now, me and him."

It appeared to be unexpected news, because Adam tipped his head sideways and frowned. As soon as the expression came however, it was gone, replaced by a warming smile. "That's good to hear. Did you find common ground at last?"

"He spent the night at my place last night," Dean told Adam. "You know, guarding me," he clarified. "He slept in Richard's bed," he was quick to add. "But we talked a lot. It was nice. So, you and Martin here go way back? That's neat."

At the sound of his name, Martin perked up.

"Yeah, we do," Adam turned his eyes on Martin. "Only a few years, but I used to be his assistant for a while. Then I graduated and picked up a new field, where I met Aidan, and we lost touch." He pulled his feet up on the chair, though he wasn't supposed to do that, then suddenly veered up. "Coffee! Oh goodness, sorry! What can I get you guys?"

"Adam always was one to get caught up in socializing and forget he had to be somewhere," Martin told Dean, happy for a chance to give input. "Just a regular old coffee's fine for me."

"Same here," Dean echoed. "I believe I will go on that holiday decorating run afterwards. No sense sitting here worrying about Richard when I could be at home preparing it for his return....especially if he's going to be sleeping all day."

"Perhaps someone could give you a ring when he wakes up? The guard will most likely be here all day." Martin looked amused. "It feels a little like I'm famous, having him there. I don't get a lot of visitors, but I can get to pretend he's there to keep the fans away. Though truth be told, your friend Richard is much more of a heartthrob than I ever was. I'm sorry for overhearing, but you say he was pushed down the stairs?"

"I believe he was, yes," Dean told him, and turned questioningly to Adam. He wasn't sure how much, if anything, he could share with Martin. And he certainly wasn't ready to mention his own abilities, having just met Martin the day before, though he might have picked up one or two things. "But Richard doesn't remember."

On his way out of the room, Adam heard most of the conversation, but he made no move to correct Dean or tell him off for letting Martin in on too much. Instead he went to get coffee and returned not much later.

Martin sighed and muttered, "Well, I suppose it's for the best that he doesn't remember. Who would want to know someone else pushed you, after all?" He felt weary despite the attention and disliked the reminder that he was in a hospital for a reason.

They didn't talk about the push after that. It was too uncomfortable a thought for all three of them. Richard remained asleep for a good half an hour more, and most likely a lot longer than that, but Martin promised to have someone call Dean and told him to go get his Christmas tree to decorate for when Richard would be acquitted, leaving only Adam and him in the room with the unconscious patient.

Dean followed Adam's advice and drove down Wisconsin Avenue until he found a parking lot where a group of Boy Scouts were selling pine and fir trees. He chose his tree based on smell, picturing how it might look nestled in the corner of their living room near the fireplace.

An hour later he had driven to a Wal-Mart and loaded the car with a tree stand and a selection of pretty glass ornaments and lights. He'd also picked up the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, a recipe he recalled from his college years.

Setting the six foot tree into a stand by himself was no mean feat, but it was a worthwhile cause that only involved a small amount of swearing, finger pinching and sticky sap. Dean wound two strings of white lights around it and watched as the simple Douglass fir began to look magical.   
Decorating the tree alone, even with his favorite Christmas music playing, wasn't as memorable or as special as it had been growing up, or on that first Christmas that he and Richard spent together in Miami. Back when—but he wasn't letting his thoughts go in that direction. Things were good now. Better, in fact. 

He covered the tree in blue, green and silver ornaments, a beautiful combination when all was said and done. When he was happy with the way the place looked, he drove back to the hospital.

While Dean worked hard, Aidan was doing nothing, or rather, nothing useful. He could have been going over some files again. He could have also gone to visit his mum—so she would stop asking him to drop by at last. But if his grandparents were there, they would start asking him if he'd found a nice girl yet, and that was always awkward. Instead, he sat on his balcony wrapped up in a winter coat for the larger part of the afternoon with a stub between his lips and his phone next to him, while he wondered. Below, Saturday was chaos.

Somewhere out there was a man who had lost it all and who killed for sport, knowing Aidan had his eyes on him.

Aidan was relieved when he considered it a decent enough time to check if Dean would have him over yet.

"Hi...Aidan?" Dean said upon answering his cell. "I'm just now leaving the hospital. Richard sends his love," there were a few muffled laughs in the background, "and so does Martin," Dean added. 

Taken off guard, Aidan parted his lips to speak and closed them again. Though part of him was glad Dean was still in the hospital—Dean hadn't called him in the parking lot like Aidan had requested, and the longer that the silence had lasted, the more anxious Aidan had gotten about it—but the odd remark and the subsequent laughter in the background made him feel like he was the brunt of a joke. "...Okay," he started, hesitant, "send them my love too, I suppose?" 

He didn't know why he said what he did next, he just did, like an invisible force pushing him into stupidity. He knew it was a petty and irrational response, and he didn't want to go into the why of it. "Look, something came up. I'll do my best to be there later, okay? Is Richard coming home tonight?"

Dean grew more serious on the other end of the line. "No, no. They're keeping Richard another night. I still hope you can make it, Aidan. Is everything all right?" Dean wondered. "It's not," he whispered, "there wasn't another murder?"

"There wasn't." Or, if there was—Aidan wasn't that convinced—then he hadn't heard of it yet. "Did Lee show up today?" If this was a land line, he would have been twirling his finger through the wire loops absently. Instead, he drummed on his leg with a pen.

"He did," Dean told the other man. "Left about forty five minutes ago." Aidan sounded really distracted, upset even. "They're about ready to feed these guys dinner and I was going to head home. Just, you know, come over when you can?"

Aidan nodded to the phone, looking at the pen. "I'll try. Stay on the phone until you're in your car?" He racked his brain for a topic to dispel the inexplicable restlessness in his limbs. "You stayed in the hospital long. Does Richard still need help with Lee, or was he treating him better today?"

Despite Dean's attempts to muffle the sound, Aidan heard his goodbyes to Martin and Richard, the latter which came punctuated by an "I love you."

"Okay," Dean's voice returned at full volume. "Walking down the hall to the elevator. I'm _in_ the elevator. Lee's fine today. When I arrived, he was holding Richard's hand, and Richard didn't seem to have any objections. I feel pretty good about their chances," Dean admitted. "Walking out the front door now. Oh, how pretty. It's starting to snow. You'd best come over soon, Aidan. I'll get the fire going."

Dean was right. From the sky and partly onto the balcony, small snowflakes drifted into the graying world. Aidan smiled, his previously awkwardness forgotten. It was beautiful, and so silent. "Okay," he said with a quieter voice. "I'm sure I can drop by. You have a fireplace? I didn't notice it yesterday." Well, they _had_ been doing other things. "Lee had better be good to your friend, you know. If he doesn't, I'll talk to him again. Where are you now?"

"Aidan," Dean chuckled. "We were making out _in front_ of it for nearly two hours. I hope you at least remember that part. I thought you forensics guys were supposed to be observant," Dean chuckled and warmth blossomed in his chest at the thought of picking up where they left off. "I really want to do it again," he told the other man, quietly but firmly. "I'm in the parking garage." Aidan heard the beep-beep as Dean unlocked his car. 

"Right." Aidan knew that. "Okay, keep looking around. I know I'm probably sounding paranoid, but humor me please, just to be safe?" He didn't allow himself to think about anything other than Dean's safety until he was in and that door was locked.

When he finally heard the door shut, he breathed out. This was insane. What had they gotten themselves into? Aidan nodded to himself. "How about dinner?"

"I made a shepherd's pie earlier," Dean told him, flipping over to his Bluetooth speaker phone. "I just have to toss it in the oven and in 30 minutes...Nirvana. You're going to love it. It's an old family recipe." He paid his parking fare and navigated out onto the street. "Oh, this snow. It's beautiful. Come enjoy it with me."

"You made it earlier?" It didn't match with Aidan's internal time line. "You were at the hospital, weren't you?"

"Well, yes, for a bit around noon, and a few hours this evening. But this afternoon, I went to get a Christmas tree and decorated it. I invited you, remember?" Dean's voice betrayed his disappointment. "And you declined. It's probably a good thing, though. Baking _is_ a messy activity. It's nothing like the cooking shows on T.V. Not when I do it. I think you could do with a little messy in your life, Aidan. I took the cookies in for the officer guarding Richard. Adam and the nurses had some as well. Oh, and Martin, of course. I did save one tray full of raw dough, though. I can stick a fresh dozen in for dessert."

Messy was not the point. Aidan's recently increased mood threatened to slip from him again. Dean hadn't contacted him in the parking lot the first time around. To think of all the things that could have happened—but no, it wouldn't do to think about that now. Yet Adam, what was Adam doing there? Richard liked him a lot, sure, but he had never given the guard permission to let him in. What if they were tracking Adam? What if that was how the Vigilante knew everything? Christ, Dean or Richard could have been in danger today.

"Please don't make me really get you off the team," Aidan bit his lip. "There's only so much I can do for you. What was Adam doing there? And did you even consider what could have happened when—oh, never mind." Aidan hated overly-protective people, and he hated it more that he was starting to recognize all the signs.

"Aidan," Dean heard the worry in his voice. "I was safe. Adam walked me to my car. It was fine," he insisted. "Adam was with me. He just came to check on Richard." _And me._ But that went unspoken. "I'm being as careful as I can, but I can't allow this to let me stop living. I won't."

"I know," Aidan replied with reluctance. "Dean, Adam's our friend, but he's not _safe_ , even if he doesn't know it himself. He could be wired, or being followed. There's a reason why that guard wasn't supposed to let anyone through except the appointed few." He didn't like saying that about Adam, but if Dean didn't understand that any friendly face within the precinct could be dangerous, there was no protecting him. "Look, you're going home now. Good. I'll meet you there, okay?"

Dean's throat felt tight, so he nodded. When he realized Aidan couldn't see that through the phone, he said, "Yes, I'll see you there, Aidan. I'm sorry. It never occurred to me not to trust Adam. Especially after what I learned on Friday about his mother. I'll be more careful, I promise. See you soon." He pushed a button to disconnect the call.

Dean was frustrated. Adam had been nice to him when Aidan had been dismissive. This wasn't a contest. He sighed, wanting to simply get home to a warm kitchen, light the fire and crack open a beer.

Aidan beat him to it. He stood with his hands in his pockets next to the front door when Dean made it home, but he was anything but relaxed. In fact everything about him screamed of a frazzled nervousness—or perhaps it was concern. Whatever it was, he was fraying at the edges. "Hi."

"Hi," Dean smiled, relieved to see Aidan waiting for him. He raised one gloved hand to wipe away the snowflakes accumulating in Aidan's curls. "Snow becomes you, Officer Turner." He leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on Aidan's cheek—although he wanted to hurl himself into Aidan's arms right there in the driveway.

Aidan gave him a brittle but quickly strengthening smile. "We can go for a walk?" he offered, paused, and added, "Sorry about today. I worried you, didn't I?"

"You just reminded me of what's going on," Dean told him. "Sometimes I need a reality check, it seems. This isn't my warmest coat," he shrugged, "but once around the block would be nice in this weather." Dean wanted desperately to touch Aidan again, if only through the gloves, but he could easily discern Aidan wasn't in the mood. "C'mon," he jerked his head towards the street.

Aidan simply nodded and started walking. His eyes kept returning to Dean whenever the man wasn't looking, and it made him feel better looking at the healthy glow on his cheeks. Just looking at it made him stop worrying. Wordlessly his hand linked with Dean when they walked. "How did the tree turn out?" he asked.

"It's really pretty, I think. In a manly way, of course. You can be the judge." Dean was so pleased Aidan took his hand, _here,_ in public that he was ready to burst. The hand served as an anchor, to keep him from floating away on a warm cloud of happiness.

_If only,_ his thoughts turned dark. _if only we'd met like normal people do_. The sword hanging over them was very real and very deadly. "What did you do all day?" Dean instead asked him, ready to think about something else.

"Nothing much. Groceries, necessities, sitting on the balcony for a while when I talked to you." Aidan squeezed the hand. He wasn't trying to tell the world, he just needed to hold him like that. He never did anything for the world. "I didn't have any plans tonight. I told you I did, but I didn't. I don't know what came over me either, but I'm finding it hard not to think about you these days." And it was because of the kiss, he knew, but also a great part because Aidan and Graham requesting Dean to help them had brought this upon Dean. Desire and guilt were a powerful but unfortunately also painful combination.

They reached the door again before Aidan was ready for it. Pulling his hand back, he allowed Dean the space to unlock the door and followed him in. It was when they were in the safety of Dean and Richard's apartment when the click of the door shutting found itself followed with Aidan's hands turning Dean to face him, and kissing him flush but calmly against the door.

Dean let out an audible sigh of pleasure and practically melted into the door as Aidan kissed him, melting snow trickling from their hair. "I've been waiting all day for that," Dean told him when the policeman pulled away to take off his coat. Dean followed suit and hung both on a coat rack in the hallway. "Should I put dinner in the oven?"

"Not just yet," Aidan cornered him again as soon as they were coatless, his mouth moving to his neck with ease and lips tracing his jugular, up to Dean's ear. "Different kind of hunger."

"Oh, _god,_ " Dean shuddered and moved his head to one side, giving Aidan all the access he could ask for. "I was hoping you'd say something like that. He felt his knees starting to buckle and his calfskin-clad hands scrambled for purchase on Aidan's cable knit sweater.

Aidan held him up as well as he could. Strong hands slipped under Dean's knees and lifted him up. He grinned up at him when the leverage pushed Dean taller than Aidan himself, but soon used the wall to help keep him supported. The longer he had him pressed against the wall, the more needful his movements became. When Aidan pulled away, he was blissfully out of breath. "You know how many times I've thought about this today?"

"You'd blush if I told you what _I_ have been thinking about," Dean breathed in his ear, whimpering at the feel of Aidan's hands on his ass and the pressure the position put on his already filling cock. Again, his lips sought out Aidan's, kissing him until they were both desperate with need. 

"Doubtful, but try me." Aidan pulled them both off the wall, struggling to keep him up—it wasn't the weight but rather the trouble of hands slipping in anticipation as they trembled and wanted to be everywhere at once—and tried to carry him anywhere but in the hallway. "I've been wondering if you'd let me go further. Would you let me?"

Gone were his concerns about serial killers and people's safety. They were a distant concern that didn't matter between these walls.

"Yeah," Dean murmured into his ear and wrapped his legs around Aidan's waist to secure himself. "Hell, yes. Whatever you want, Aidan. Whatever you want." He writhed against him in pleasure. "Put me down. Let's go upstairs."

Aidan dropped him gently to his own feet and let Dean lead the way in his own home. By the time they got to the bedroom, he had slipped out of his shoes and his shirt. He was in the middle of toeing off his socks when Dean turned to face him. Aidan was a mental mess with a raging urge to possess this man in front of him. That he viewed Dean as a kind soul only spurred him further on in his want to defile him. He maneuvered him back until he had no way but to fall back on the mattress, then crawled on top of him.

"Gloves on or off?" Aidan asked as he held up Dean's wrist to his lips and nipped at the skin leisurely.

"I'd leave that up to you," Dean hissed, as his hips leapt up to meet Aidan's on their own accord. "But, if you choose off, and you see me zoning...just, you know, bring me back to reality," he smiled shyly. "Something tells me I'd enjoy getting lost in the story of your past." 

Aidan stared at him in amazement. He quickly snapped out of it and moved the attention up until his tongue was running circles around Dean's leather-clad index finger heavily loaded with suggestion. "I prefer you here with me," he decided against removing the gloves, "maybe after." His hand groped Dean's side and pulled him closer, followed by his fingers pushing their way underneath the fabric. Aidan had no idea how far was still okay with Dean, but he intended to get as much as he could.

Dean's skin was hot to the touch, his body trembling. Aidan groaned. He let go of his hand, slithered down and moved his mouth at the delicate skin just to the south-east of Dean's navel.

Aidan's attentions to Dean's wrists had him ready to come in his pants. Men—and there had been few aside from Richard—usually avoided his hands like the plague. Aidan, it seemed, liked to try to get as close to the fire as he could without being burned. The gloves were made of the thinnest possible leather, and he felt every twitch of Aidan's tongue. But the wrist kisses turned him to putty under Aidan.

_I'm not afraid of you,_ those kisses said. And that meant everything. He felt with certainty he'd let Aidan have his way with him, tonight.

"Tonight," the word was out of his mouth before he realized it. "Want you tonight, Aid." His fingers lovingly traced Aidan's jaw.

"That'd make me very happy." With his nose and mouth so close to Dean's nether regions, Aidan could do nothing other than notice the blond's natural musk. He smelled and felt incredible. Dean didn't know how stark was the contrast between him and the other men in Aidan's life—and there had been many. Aidan didn't care about all the ways in which he didn't want to get involved with someone he knew, or how all those previous encounters had been one-night-only events, with him handing them a fake phone number to make sure he never saw them again. There was something about Dean that made him feel a fool for having felt threatened by him.

He nudged the shirt further up. "Take it off," he said with reverence and anticipation, "let me see you. Not the gloves. I want you to touch me with your gloves on, later."

A sly smile spread across Dean's face at Aidan's mind-blowingly hot words. He reached down, now very cognizant of how the smooth, supple leather felt against the skin of his own stomach, and slid his sweater and shirt over his head in one fluid motion. A silver chain with a tiny clear crystal on it hung around Dean's neck, ending just where his chest hair—only slightly darker than the hair on his head—began.

Already his fingers were itching to touch Aidan. And he already knew that, although he was out of practice, Aidan was going to love it.

Aidan worshipped the necklace, of which he suspected a deeper meaning but which he didn't ask about, by placing a kiss on it, then nudging it aside with his nose to kiss Dean's chest underneath. "I wonder," he murmured, "what you'd feel if I let you read me right after I come." Aidan wasn't afraid of that. He felt wonderfully in balance with his hands running up and down Dean's chest and his mouth trying to wring the first sound of pleasure from him. To that purpose, he finally started a path down until he reached Dean's belt, crossed the leather band in favor of that which lay underneath it and mouthed at his erection through denim.

Aidan's heart was pounding in his throat while he waited for the approval or the dismissal to come.

Aidan would never know for sure if it were his words or his actions that made Dean whimper in pleasure. "Y-you'd want that?" Dean's eyes were nearly engulfed by pupils. "Because I feel pretty certain it would push me over the edge, if you don't push me there just by talking about it. I can be pretty _cerebral_ in bed. Dirty mind, active imagination, all that," he admitted. "But I'm guessing that you," he wriggled as Aidan reached for his belt buckle, "ungh, that you are a wild man."

Well, Aidan _was_ planning to be slow about it, but after Dean tempting him like that, he all but growled and tugged the belt loose with renewed impatience, unzipped the jeans and dragged out his erection through his boxers, and with his jeans hardly any further down on his hips. He took one look at Dean before he took him in as deep as he could. Which, as it turned out, was nearly all the way in.

It had been years— _years,_ Dean cursed silently—since anything but his own hand had touched his dick. It wasn't for lack of dating encouragement on Richard's part. No one had felt right. He felt that if he didn't control himself, he might come with embarrassing quickness, enveloped in Aidan's hot, insistent mouth.

"God... _god_...you are," came streaming from his lips. "I knew it, Aid. Even with my gloves on, I knew it." He tried to focus on something non-sexy in order to put up a semblance of control, but it was a lost cause. Aidan smelled so _good_ and he was doing amazing things with his tongue and his hands that hand Dean practically mewling. 

He came a minute later.

It was also unexpected. Aidan hadn't pulled away far enough for there to be enough space left in his mouth, and he hardly ever swallowed. He had no choice now. With Dean's cock pressed against the back of his throat, he tried desperately to control the gag reflex and swallow at the same time. It was slightly painful and yet incredibly rewarding when the sounds of what he was doing reached him. Aidan milked the man for all he had, pulled back, and wiped the corner of his smiling mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were slightly swollen and his hair mussed. "You taste incredible." Reading Aidan would have to come another time. "Christ, look at you. You really have no clue how fucking sexy you look right now, do you?"

In order to save him from having to reply to that, Aidan slotted his body on top of Dean's and kissed him again.

Tasting himself on Aidan's tongue was surprising, but rewarding. "I didn't want to have to tell you this," his eyes met Aidan's, "but since I came like a teenager, I guess I have to admit that it's been awhile since I've been with anyone. Like... _years,_ " he bit his own lip. "God, that makes me sound really pathetic. It's just, we moved a lot, and I'm—well, I guess you could say I'm selective."

Dean, nearly naked under a fully dressed Aidan suddenly felt very exposed. "I don't want you to think I'm spent for the evening. Far from it," he smiled. "I'm not done with you. Want to see your body...please?"

"I noticed," Aidan said with amusement. He sat back and took in the wonderful sight. "I like that, you being selective." It meant Dean had given this some thought. He crept off of him and tugged the remains of Dean's jeans off with him. His own pants joined the pile not much later. Aidan quirked a brow when his hands reached his boxers. "Yes?" It was Aidan's turn to be conscious about himself. Aidan had a well-toned body, courtesy of some martial arts classes he had picked up a while back, but he wanted Dean to like it. To like him.

Before Aidan knew what he was doing, he blurted out, "I like you."

Dean's eyes softened. "I like you, too. I wouldn't have you here in my bed if I didn't." He raised himself on one elbow. " _Show me._ I've been thinking about what your body might look like all day."

The world was growing dark outside. Dean reached towards his bedside table and flipped on a light that lit the room up in a neon blue. "It helps me relax," he told Aidan. "Maybe it'll help you, too."

His eyes never left Aidan.

Neon blue. That was definitely a first to the man standing. "I don't want to relax," he shook his head and pushed down the last obstructing piece of garment. It left him wholly naked and looking oddly fragile despite his physical confidence, but he didn't return to the bed. Instead he allowed Dean to watch him as he stood presented and took that time to look Dean over as well. 

Dean was, he found, remarkably well cut. Under that small exterior lay a lion in waiting. It was an unexpected, pleasant surprise. The best part though was how Dean's early orgasm had flushed him and made him more relaxed at the same time, and Aidan couldn't keep his eyes away from the fleeting traces of that. He wanted to see him when he made him come. More than that, he wanted those hands on him. His cock twitched in reply, and he chewed on his bottom lip to let Dean in on his thoughts. "What do you want me to do now?"

Dean's voice was low and tinged with lust. "I'd like you to tell me where on your body you'd most like to feel my leather-encased hands." His smile was nearly predatory. "Then I'd like you to come over here and let me touch you there."


	8. I Come In Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and then, they had sex. 
> 
> And get snowed in with Adam, who wants Dean to do a reading on something that used to belong to his mother.
> 
> And... the Vigilante's identity is revealed!

_Dean's voice was low and tinged with lust. "I'd like you to tell me where on your body you'd most like to feel my leather-encased hands." His smile was nearly predatory. "Then I'd like you to come over here and let me touch you there."_

Aidan sucked in a breath. Dean was unexpectedly forward with his words. He wanted the man's hands on numerous places, but he had a very specific place where he wanted him to start. Wetting his dry lips, he walked closer to the bed. "First my back," he whispered.

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "Lie here next to me on your stomach. Let me see the rest of you." He patted the space beside him and lifted the covers for Aidan to slide under.

The words were followed like an order. It was agony, to have less friction than Aidan wanted, but that was what made it fun. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his hands on the pillow, fully at Dean's mercy. Aidan shook his head however when Dean wanted to put the covers up over him. He wasn't cold, and he wanted Dean free to do whatever he wanted.

Unlike his chest, which was thick with dark, curling hair, Aidan's back was smooth, save for the jut of his shoulder blades and the dip of his spine. Dean lay his hand on Aidan's shoulder to start and felt the warmth of Aidan's skin through his gloves.

"You _are_ warm," he remarked, running that hand across the expanse of Aidan's shoulders to the other side and slowly returning, over and over, the buttery soft leather never catching on his skin, only caressing. Back and forth the hand went, and Dean studied Aidan's face as he dipped lower and lower.

"Can you feel it?" Aidan wondered. "Your gloves..." The further down those gloves crept, the further his body started thrumming with anticipation, until he practically trembled when Dean reached his ass. For someone with such caution for his own hands, Dean sure knew how to use them. Aidan bit his fist to stifle a moan and raised his hips. "Go on."

"I choose my gloves very carefully," Dean told him. "I have to be able to feel through them or I'd never get anything done." He traced over the swell of Aidan's right butt cheek, noting where it was firm and where it was more supple. He swallowed audibly. "Your body is wonderful, Aidan." He leaned over to kiss the brunet on the temple. "I want to do much more than touch." He moved his lips to lave Aidan's scapula.

"I'm not made out of porcelain," Aidan muffled against the pillow while his back arched up to the touch. The sheets smelled of Dean and of sex, and the heady combination had him needing more. Had anyone told him a few days ago that things would lead up to this, he would have laughed. Aidan didn't laugh now. "Do it. Whatever you want." He pointed clumsily at his jeans, discarded on the floor. "I brought condoms."

Condoms. _Plural._ Dean's eyes widened behind Aidan's back. "C-can you give me a minute?" Dean got to his feet. "I'll be right back." He knew he didn't have any lube. But Richard might. 

Naked, he quickly padded down the cold hallway to Richard's room and opened the door to his bedside table. There, next to a handful Tolkien books and a flashlight, was a plastic bottle of Astroglide. Dean smiled. _I owe you one, Richard._

"Sorry about that," he said, returning to find Aidan hadn't moved. "Roll over, please? I'm dying to get a look at your cock, Aidan." He sat the bottle of lube purposefully on the night stand. Just in case.

Aidan chuckled low and did as he was asked. His eyes fell on the bottle of lube that hadn't been there before. He knew what that meant. Without being told so, he lay back on the bed and spread his legs a bit—not enough for it to be tasteless, but just enough to send a message. Blue light bounced off his skin and off Dean's, who was equally naked and, Aidan noticed, not as self-conscious about that nakedness as he had thought he would be. "You have plans for me, don't you? Go on then, I'm here." 

_And not Richard,_ thought Aidan. None of this would have happened if Aidan hadn't been given reason to be around Dean in Richard's absence.

"I'm not getting lube on these gloves," Dean made that clear. "They probably cost more than your gun. You wouldn't stick your gun in a vat of lube, would you?" After the words had left his mouth, Dean realized how very sexual the connotations were. "God," he grinned. "What's wrong with me? Your _other_ gun, I meant, of course."

Aidan grinned. "Oh, I'd stick my gun in a vat of lube all right," he used the innuendo freely. "Then what do you propose? Remove them? I'd like for you to really _touch_ me, but I'd prefer it if you didn't see flashes of my childhood when you're, you know, doing what you're going to be doing."

Dean agonized over the decision. "You're right. This is our first time, and I want to be here, in the moment. Not watching you learn to ride a bicycle, or dancing at your prom," he smiled, biting his lip to stifle a groan as he caught a glimpse of Aidan's gorgeous cock. "Oh... _wow,_ " he sighed. "You do have a beautiful dick, Aidan." Dean leaned over and picked up Aidan's discarded jeans; he reached into one of the pockets and pulled out a couple of condoms with a smile. Taking the lube, he handed both the bottle and a condom to Aidan. "Put these on. I'm going to ride you, if that's okay."

Dean put the middle finger of his left hand into his mouth, bit on the leather of the glove and pulled it off. "I'll get myself ready while you do."

Nodding quickly, Aidan spread his legs further and wrapped one hand around his cock. He rarely touched himself like this in front of bed partners, and because of Dean's gloves they were doing this during their first night in the same bed. "You'll—?" He bit off his words and let his head fall back. Aidan's eyes kept their focus on Dean, Dean's hands and his cock. As such, those naked hands starting to prepare him drew an audible gasp from Aidan. "You're incredible," he whispered. "I'll be doing that to you next time." At the insertion of one finger, Aidan closed his eyes and groaned, his free hand reaching for Dean's knee.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, eyes zeroed in on Aidan's slim fingers running the length of his cock, "Next time, I'll touch you wherever you like, no gloves, I promise. Just...this first time...don't want to ruin it. I can't," he gasped as his fingers found his own prostate, long neglected since the last time Richard had quested for it, " _ungh,_ I can't control it, you see. And I don't want that to come between us, Aidan. Nothing between us right now, except that rubber, okay?" 

"Okay." Aidan's eyes were shut and his lips were parted, but he had enough presence of mind to reach for the condom and start unwrapping the foil. He rolled it down with shaking hands and disapproved of the lesser friction as soon as he had it on. There was no point bemoaning it, because Dean was so small compared to himself that he was going to grip him like a vise.

"Whenever you're ready. Can I—?"

Dean was pulled forward until he was perfectly close enough for Aidan to wrap his hand around both their cocks. He licked his lips and watched Dean. "Do it, or I swear I'll turn you over and have you anyway."

Dean chuckled to hide the rush of lust Aidan's threat shot through him. "Here," he picked up the lube and drizzled a bit over Aidan's condom covered cock. "Just in case. It's been a while for me. I know they say it's like riding a bicycle," he smiled, "but I know of no bikes with a seat like this."

He snicked shut the top of the lube and wiped his hand on the sheet, then slipped his left glove back on. "Now...hold yourself steady for me, love," he deftly straddled Aidan's hips, "and don't make any sudden movements."

So Dean would use his hands on himself, but would cover them for Aidan. Aidan sensed a future challenge. He lay back and offered whatever help he could give. When Dean's mouth came close to his, he reached up and kissed it; when Dean pulled away and positioned himself above him, Aidan gripped the base of his erection and practically nudged it against Dean's opening. "Oh God," he whispered, "give me what I need, Dean. You feel so incredibly good. I am this close to shoving myself up inside of you."

He was impatient and he told himself he didn't care. But when Dean winced at the initial intrusion, Aidan found himself pulling back in support rather than forcing what he wanted.

A sound escaped Dean, a combination of a groan of pain and a sigh of pleasure, as he sank slowly onto Aidan's cock. He might have been out of practice, but he certainly remembered the mechanics of sex with another man. The smell of Aidan was driving him mad with desire. 

He hadn't thought he'd be able to grow aroused again so quickly, but he was quickly proven wrong. Aidan had him wrapped around his finger, and his body was at his beck and call. It took him a little less than a minute for him to become fully seated on Aidan's dick, his ass flush with the warm skin of Aidan's crotch.

"There now," he moaned, caressing Aidan's cheekbone with his gloved thumb. "Right where I want to be."

"You okay?" panted Aidan. Dean fit around him like a tight fist that he wanted to move, but hotter and ten times more erotic than that. Dean didn't have half as much trouble with this as Aidan had expected at the confession that it had been awhile for him. He squirmed and reflexively thrust up, stopping himself as soon as he realized what he was going. His hands slid to Dean's hips first, but soon one left it and pulled him down for a deep and lasting kiss.

Aidan was panting for breath when they separated. "Whenever you're ready. Move." Because if he didn't soon, the lack of friction would become too much. Aidan needed so much more.

Dean's lips were swollen from kissing and his face flushed with his exertions. "So big, Aidan," he squeezed him gently with his inner muscles. "So perfect." He flexed his thighs and gave a little push, gasping in pleasure as Aidan's cock head slipped over his prostate on the second try. "Like a glove," he smiled, biting his lip, and slowly picking up speed. "God, do you feel it? How well we fit?"

Lots of replies crossed Aidan's mind. He intended for them to do this many more times, and he looked forward to the time he got to try how well they fit the other way around. He didn't speak any of them. Instead, full of reverence, he breathed, "Perfectly," and squeezed Dean's hand. His body was shaking. "Again."

Dean squeezed the hand, planting his other gloved hand firmly on Aidan's chest for leverage. He'd already found the angle that brought sparks dancing across his skin. The only thing left now was to bring Aidan over the edge with him.

Dean set a pace, hips rising and falling, feeling the drag and pressure of Aidan's cock with every movement. Soon he was sweating, whimpering as he allowed himself to stimulate that spot with more frequency.

Aidan was coming undone beautifully beneath him.

The moment he truly lost himself to the feeling, Aidan nearly whipped the both of them around. He thrust up, tossed his head left and bit whatever was within his reach. At first it was the pillow, but soon that was one of Dean's hands. Aidan's own slipped without thinking to Dean's erection and started drawing the fist around it up and down, faster and faster in tandem with the rhythm. He wasn't sure whether Dean was able to come again but it mattered little to his need to do it.

Aidan's chest rose and fell faster and faster. He was close, so close.

It wasn't the smell, nor the closeness, Aidan's hand on his dick, or the stimulation to his prostate. No. Aidan's pearly white teeth biting into the caramel leather of his glove and prickling the meaty part of his hand below his thumb was what did Dean in. 

"Oh, _god,_ " he groaned. His entire focus dwindled to below his waist as he erupted like a volcano over Aidan's hand, muscles bearing down on him as he came again.

Aidan's eyes shot open. His pupils dilated, he stared up at Dean with a feral surprise and kept his eyes locked on him as Dean rode it out. Almost as soon as the other came, the tightness constricted and he gasped. "Oh, _fuck_ ," Aidan groaned. "Stay there, just stay there!"

He pistoned his hips up four more times, hitched, and came apart with a hoarse cry, pushing his shoulders back into the sheets and his chest up, while dragging Dean's mouth down on his. Aidan's fingers dug deep into Dean's back muscles. "That..."

Thoroughly sated, Dean could only nod in agreement, forehead flush against Aidan's. He didn't want to move a muscle, so he lowered his weight down onto Aidan's chest, one hand caressing Aidan's cheek. 

"Thank you," he whispered, softly kissing Aidan's nose. "So good, Aid. So good."

Aidan nudged his nose up gently. A peace had come over him that was rarely there. A kiss against Dean's chin, the shiver when he drafted a hand along his side, all of it was marvelous because it was learning more about this man. "You did most of it," he said. "How do you recover that fast? You're a walking miracle, and your hands...I never knew I had a thing for hands until today."

"Like I said," Dean murmured, "it's been awhile. I'm not sure it'll be like that every time. I'm no spring chicken." He chuckled. "And my hands certainly have a thing for you. With or without the gloves. You hungry? I'm starving."

"Me too." Aidan grinned lazily. "I don't care, you know. What you just did, you've got me. And next time, I get to turn this around." He kissed him again. Their lips stuck together when he finally let him go. "But for now, a shower should be great."

Dean ran his left hand down Aidan's flank once more for good measure, then got off the bed with a groan. He chuckled, and went to his dresser to pull out a pair of pajama bottoms. "Get the water started. I'll go downstairs and put the casserole in the oven. It'll be ready in thirty five minutes or so. We can have some salad if you're hungry before that. But save me a space in that shower, okay?" He leaned over and kissed Aidan once more before slipping out the door.

Left to his devices in a still foreign house, Aidan fell back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling with a giddy smile. This was a man who was a practicing psychic and had blue lights in his bedroom; who couldn't touch anyone without reading things from where they came from. Trust it to be this man whom Aidan felt like he was quickly losing his heart to. He was never this lost to his impulses, and on top of that it was for a man he had, up until the fire, despised for everything he was.

The only thing that made sense to Aidan was if Dean was the Vigilante, manipulating him into his web, but that just rang all wrong. With anyone other than Dean, then yes. But not him. Aidan cursed himself for his analytical mind shifting back into place when he wanted to do nothing more than just enjoy the night and all it had to offer. He got up to find the bathroom, switched the shower on and let every bad thought wash away with the water.

When Dean joined him, he kissed him with inexplicable desperation. Aidan didn't want to lose him.

Seeing Aidan so vulnerable unnerved Dean more than a little. He knew the Vigilante case was taking a toll on Aidan. What he couldn't gauge was how much of a toll. He wasn't going to back off, as the ominous note in Richard's pocket had suggested. Not now. They were too close to the truth.

He pulled Aidan from the shower and helped towel him dry, reassuring him with kisses as he did so. He handed Aidan a warm pair of pajama bottoms and a sweat shirt and led him downstairs. There, Dean served up two bowls of piping hot shepherd’s pie and they carried them to the sofa by the fireplace.

Some ten minutes into their food, the doorbell rang. Aidan put his fork back onto his plate and raised an eyebrow from the couch, where he sat with his legs wrapped around Dean. "You expecting company? Do you want me to get that?" He kissed the man behind his ear and nipped at it before giving him space.

"Uh...sure, I guess," Dean frowned. "No one's expected. Wonder who it could be?"

That worried Aidan. He got up from the couch, looking around for something to use as a weapon, just in case, and padded to the hallway, where he reached for his gun from the coat stand and slipped it against the hollow of his back under his waistband. Bare feet tiptoed to the door and looked through the looking glass.

Adam.

Aidan blinked. What was Adam doing here? He carefully opened the door—not far enough to let him in—and smiled. "Hi. This is a surprise."

"Aidan?" Adam smiled, but not with the conviction he should have. "I wasn't expecting you to be here." He was carrying a six-pack of beer and a plastic grocery bag. "I thought Dean might need some company. But I guess you've got it covered." His eyes fell to Aidan's stocking feet and pajama bottoms. Apparently, he was getting quite cozy at Dean's house. "May I come in? It's really freezing out here." He had snowflakes in his hair and on his shoulders.

"Ah, right, right."

But Adam's presence worried Aidan. He had wriggled his way past security that day during visiting hours the same way. It seemed like it was impossible to keep him away from Dean. So much for Aidan's plans to keep Dean working for them without getting him tangled up with the other people. So much, Aidan thought miserably, for protecting him. Adam here pushed that outside of his grasp.

Aidan stepped aside and let him in. "That's thoughtful of you," he added belatedly.

"The truth is," Adam said to him conspiratorially as he removed his scarf, "my reasons for coming over are a bit selfish. I brought along something of my mother's. I was going to ask if Dean would be willing to read it for me. I wanted to see what he could learn. Do you think he'd mind?" He hung his scarf and jacket on a peg inside the door and slipped out of his wet boots, placing them on the mat.

Aidan put the gun away as soon as he saw fit without alerting Adam. "It's been a rough couple of days for him. You should ask him yourself if you want, but keep in mind that it could be difficult for him." He was suddenly very aware of wearing pajama bottoms and Dean's sweat shirt.

Maybe, if he could make Adam feel like he was intruding upon something, he could get him to leave without being unkind to his friend.

Aidan led him into the living room where Dean was. "Look who's here," he smiled at him. "Adam came to check up on you."

Dean brightened. "Adam! Hey! There's shepherd's pie still hot in the oven. And I just made cookies. You hungry?"

Adam held up the six-pack. "I come in peace," he smiled crookedly.

"Of course you do," Dean got up and hugged him warmly. "Glad you came over. Aidan and I were just...well, what _were_ we doing, Aidan?" he grinned.

Aidan smiled broadly. "Eating." He gestured for Adam to sit down somewhere. "Try some, definitely. He makes excellent food and cookies." Dean's enthusiasm made him feel much better about it all. "I'm staying over just in case. The Vigilante got pretty close last time." He didn't return to how he had been sitting, with his legs around Dean, but took a respectable distance this time around. Still, he couldn't help but glance over at Dean now and then. He had to be easy to read. "I heard you dropped by at the hospital today."

"Yeah, I did," Adam replied, accepting a steaming bowl from Dean with a smile. "I wanted to check on Richard but, as it turns out, I know his roommate quite well. He was my professor at college. You never met Professor Freeman, did you, Aidan?"

Aidan shook his head. "I hope he gets to return home very soon. I don't like him lying there when the Vigilante's used him as a warning. First the fire, now Richard. Adam, I can understand if he wants off the case, even though I hope he won't. He's the only lead we've got." He smiled at Dean. "I'm getting seconds, if you don't mind. Be right back."

Without really waiting for an answer, Aidan hopped up and headed to the kitchen.

"I'm glad you came over, Adam, really," Dean told him. "It was really nice of you to be thinking of my safety. But, as you can see, Aidan seems to have everything under control. We've hit it off much better than I expected we might when we first met."

"He's...wearing a pajama, isn't he? And he’s staying over?" Adam fidgeted with his mother's pendant. He had assumed to see Dean alone, but here he was having to share the man's attention with his work partner and friend. "I, well, I can't pretend I'm not surprised."

"It kinda snuck up on me too," Dean admitted. "I mean, I thought he was attractive when we first met, but then he was so standoffish. Then, well, Richard got hurt and he started being nice to me. One thing led to another, and well...yeah," Dean blushed a bit and shrugged. "I really like him, Adam." 

Adam noticed Dean wasn't wearing his gloves. Apparently he didn't wear them around the house.

Dean's eyes fell to Adam's hand. "What have you brought?" 

"Oh. Ah, that. It's, ah," Adam smiled awkwardly. Whereas his question had been more like testing grounds to become a prelude for further questions, there was no doubt about the thing between Aidan and Dean now. It hurt. Adam didn't want to show that, especially not when Aidan returned from the kitchen and sat down with extras, but still it stung. Hadn't they been such great partners at work, Aidan and he? Hadn't they always understood one other perfectly?

Yet here Aidan was, with Dean. Adam offered up the pendant. "It was my mother's. But I can come back for it tomorrow if you like. I feel really bad interrupting you two." As he felt betrayed, and heartbroken.

"You only interrupted dinner, and I have plenty to share, as you can see," Dean told him. "May I have one of those beers?"

"Of course," Adam said quietly. "It's why I brought them."

Dean accepted the can opener from Aidan and flipped the top off three bottles with practiced motion, handing one out to each of them, then sitting by the fire. "Take that chair, Adam," he offered the armchair he had been seated in to Adam. "It's the best seat in the house," he took a long swig of his beer. "After you've eaten, I'll take you into my study and I'll see what I can get off that pendant. Deal?"

Adam nodded his acceptance timidly while Aidan observed. He didn't know why he had not seen it before, for it was clear as daylight now. He wanted to apologize. If he did, however, then Dean would know. He didn't feel like he could put him through that now. So Aidan kept quiet, taking a drink and deciding to tag in on the active conversation. "Are you sure you want it read?" he wondered. "A lot happened, and it's a very emotional time for you. Especially now, with the Vigilante having a connection to her." 

"Of course I do," Adam insisted around a mouthful of his meal, "now more than ever. Although I gotta be honest. I'd also like to get a little more drunk first. Would that affect what you see?"

"Heh, no," Dean chuckled. "But it might affect how clearly I communicate it. Have as much as you like, Adam. There's plenty more where that came from. Beer as well." As he spoke, he reached over and curled his hand around the leg of the chair Aidan was sitting in.

Almost automatically Aidan reached for Dean's hand in reply. He jolted it away when it came in contact with bare skin instead of glove. Aidan's eyes went big and he immediately turned his eyes on Dean, needing to know if the small touch had unintentionally triggered something. "You okay? Shit, I'm sorry. That was careless of me."

"It's all right," Dean assured him, running a finger teasingly along Aidan's knee, then pulling away. "It's not a constant barrage of information. If it were, I'd probably go insane."

Dean turned to Adam. "I don't know how you do it, Adam," he said, "but I understand _why._ If I lost my mother, I'd go to any length to find the person who did it and bring him to justice. I'll bet you're even a little bit jealous of the Vigilante in that regard. I would be."

Adam shrugged sadly, his eyes glued on their play of hands. "She's gone," he said quietly. "All I've got are memories. Perhaps it can help with the case, but perhaps it's just another memory of her. They are so limited, so I will take what you can give me." 

He finished his food and put the plate on the table. When Dean and Aidan were done too, he followed them into what Dean called the study, put the pendant forth and looked up expectantly.

"You two," Dean flipped a switch and some recessed lighting came on in subdued tones of blue and green, "just get comfortable," he gestured to the empty chairs placed around the table and took the pendant from Adam into his left hand. He covered it with his right, closing his eyes.

"Her name was Lenore," Dean told them, a slight smile on his face. "This necklace was a gift for her birthday—her 30th. You helped your father pick it out, Adam," he said, eyes still closed. "She wore it all the time." Dean could see a tiny Adam through Lenore's eyes. They were a smiling, affectionate family. 

Dean dreaded seeing Lenore's death, and fortunately he was spared. "She wasn't wearing it when she died. I—I don't know why. Your father wanted to bury her in it, but changed his mind. He gave it to you, to remember her by. You keep it, in a box in a drawer next to your bed. You hold it sometimes, at night and you think of her and..." he paused, wrinkling his forehead, "...you sometimes talk to her, tell her about your day, that sort of thing." 

A tear ran down Dean's face when he opened his eyes. and he returned the necklace to Adam. "You're lucky your father kept this for you. It's a good way to remember her."

Adam's hands were shaking by the time he received the pendant. There were tears in his eyes, and he shook his head slightly. "That's her," he whispered bitterly. "Thank you. No link to the Vigilante then, is there? That makes me glad in some ways, though it's not very useful for Aidan and me." He smiled at Aidan. "Thank you, Dean. I should—I should leave you two to it, I think. You were clearly in the middle of something, and I do not want to intrude."

Dean's heart was breaking for Adam. He couldn't imagine what his childhood would have been like if he had had to suffer the death of his mother. He felt as if he needed to show Adam further support.

"It's snowing like crazy," he told the two policemen after a glance out through the curtains. "There's two spare beds here, Adam. You should stay the night. I'd feel awful sending you out in this."

He turned to Aidan to gauge his response.

Aidan was not pleased to hear that, but what was he to do? Dean was someone he didn't want to start pushing away, and it looked like he would surely be disappointed in him if he didn't say yes. "I could drop you off home," he offered, because it was a viable thing to say. "But if you prefer, you should stay over. There's plenty of food, and Richard's bed is empty." That was, if Aidan slept in Dean's that night.

Opposite them, bagging the pendant, Adam seemed to mull that over. Eventually he nodded. "I'd really appreciate that, if it's not too much trouble. Sorry. I should have called first to see if this was a good timing, shouldn't I have?"

"Adam, you were nice to me at the precinct," Dean told him. "I really appreciated that. Anything I can do to repay that kindness, I will. Now, what say we crack open some more beers?"

He passed Aidan on his way out of the room and brushed his hand over Aidan's shoulder. He could feel frustration coming off Aidan in waves. 

_I'm sorry,_ he thought, as he opened the refrigerator. He tried to communicate that with his eyes when Aidan followed him into the kitchen.

While Adam waited patiently in the living room, Aidan used that short time to push Dean up against the fridge and scatter kisses along his ear and neck. "I don't want him here," he whispered. "I want to have you again, and I don't want one of my best friends in the other room being uncomfortable about it. It'll be on my mind. You're a better man than I am, Dean."

He pushed off and offered Dean space. And from that point on, Aidan was wonderful. He was kind to Adam, he made sure to always sit next to Dean but never claim him in ways of a hand on his knee or leaning against him, but while it was nice company, he longed for more. At ten, which was entirely too early, he yawned and announced he was going to bed soon if that was okay.

Aidan was terribly well-behaved, but the tension was thick regardless. Adam was clearly uncomfortable with what Dean had revealed about his relationship with Aidan. Dean began to wonder if maybe Adam himself was interested in Aidan. It would make sense.

"I'm so grateful for the hospitality," Adam pulled him out of his thoughts. "I won't disturb you two, I promise," he cut his eyes nervously between the pair as he stood in Richard's doorway. "Thanks again, Dean. Goodnight, Aidan," he raised a hand in parting and closed the door.

Dean chuckled softly. "Now," he reached for Aidan's hand as soon as they had the privacy, "where were we?"

The hand was retreated, but not with malice. "Glove," Aidan quietly reminded him, "or you want to be reading me. I'm fine with you reading me, but like I said..." Aidan didn't want flashbacks to some awkward memory when he was trying to bring Dean pleasure. He closed the door and pulled Dean onto the bed, where he divested himself of his pajama bottoms. He didn't sleep in pajamas unless it was for propriety's sake. "I had hoped to have you to myself tonight. I made things awkward."

"I couldn't turn him away, Aidan," Dean slipped on his gloves and cupped Aidan's cheek with one hand. "He looked like a soggy little puppy when he got here. And I have a feeling he doesn't have much of a social life. I like him," he smiled, yawned. "He's damaged, clearly. I think that's what I like. And, I also think he fancies _you_ ," Dean leaned over to kiss Aidan's forehead. "He has good taste."

Aidan's eyelids were already drooping. Dean realized he was pretty exhausted himself. "Long day," he said softly. "You're beautiful, Aidan. I really enjoyed this afternoon. I hope...," he started to say, then paused.

"Mmmhm," Aidan wrapped an arm around his waist and snuggled into him, "Hope what?"

"I hope we can do it again tomorrow," he whispered into Aidan's hair. Dean's last action was to reach over and switch off his bedside lamp. The room was bathed in blue neon and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow next to Aidan's.

\- - - - -

Adam puttered around Richard's room for twenty minutes, although he knew exactly when they’d succumb to the drug. Adam had volunteered to go to the kitchen for the final round and pop open the last three beers in the fridge. When he did, he'd also added a small vial of liquid lormetazepam to each of their bottles. It wasn't enough to kill them, of course, just enough to keep them unresponsive enough so Adam could do what he needed to do—get Dean out of the house.

It was only a matter of time before Dean discovered that Adam was the Vigilante.

_How had things gotten this complicated?_ Adam lamented as he pulled on his clothing. Aidan wasn't supposed to be here. Luckily, Adam had brought two of everything, just in case.

When he entered Dean's bedroom, carrying two syringes, neither Dean nor Aidan stirred. He went first to Aidan's side of the bed. Aidan, if he did wake—which was next to impossible—would be harder to subdue. 

Aidan looked so pretty in slumber, his features relaxed, softened. Damn near angelic; Adam had always thought so. "I won't hurt you, Aid," he whispered to his friend. "And I'll be here for you, to turn to in your grief. I promise." He lay a kiss to Aidan's cheek and sank the needle into Aidan's thigh. Its contents would keep Aidan out of his hair and deeply unconscious for at least twelve hours. Adam had to cover Aidan up, lest he stay there mesmerized by his exposed flesh all night.

Adam hadn't planned on killing Dean at first. He genuinely liked him. But he knew too much. Even with the evidence destroyed, he was still able to find things out, just by sticking those damn hands into the ashes of the desert roses that had adorned Adam's parents’ coffins. It was only a matter of time before he discovered what Adam had done. The murders.

Adam had thought that Richard's "accident" would have done the trick. Distracted by his cell phone and papers, it hadn't been difficult at all to plant his hand between Richard’s shoulder blades and send him flying, ass over teakettle, down the unforgiving concrete stairs. Richard never saw him, and if he did, he didn't recognize him from the previous evening. But what Adam had failed to realized then was that Richard wasn't Dean's boyfriend.

As of yesterday, apparently _Aidan_ was. Finding Dean in a romantic tryst with Aidan had pushed Adam over the edge, making the decision for him.

Adam huffed in annoyance and depressed the contents of the second syringe into Dean's neck. A pretty necklace with a small quartz sparkled there; Adam liked the way it looked against Dean's pale skin, so he kept it on him. Thankfully Dean had fallen into bed wearing pajama bottoms, socks and a thermal shirt. Adam would struggle enough carrying Dean out to his car; he didn't want to have to dress him as well.

There was no need to rush. He took his time cleaning up the scene, getting rid of signs of his presence in the house. Then he dragged Dean out of his bed and downstairs, perspiring heavily by the time he reached the front door. Adam had parked his car around the corner, and so he put on his boots and coat and ran to fetch it. It took some time to clean off the snow and ice the storm had dumped on it. The good news was, the bad weather was keeping people indoors.

When he got back to Dean and Richard's house, Dean was exactly where he had left him, of course—unconscious, on the floor next to the coat rack, his breathing slow and regular. 

"Here we go then, Bloodhound," he leaned over and grunted as he slung Dean over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. His back would not be happy with him in the morning. But he had carried people heavier than Dean in the past year. And they all ended up in the same place...the trunk of Adam’s car. 

It was going to be cold in there tonight, not that Dean would feel it. Still, after he dropped the blond into the trunk, he pulled a blanket over him. He wasn't ready for him to die. Not just yet.

Shaking the snow off his boots, Adam climbed into the driver's seat and the car drove slowly off into the night.


	9. The Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan and his team hunt frantically for the Vigilante and his most recent victim. Richard makes a surprising revelation. Someone decides he wants to cure Dean.

Nobody missed Aidan while he was out cold, but the hospital called Dean's phone the next morning at nine o'clock to inform him that Richard was being discharged, and they wanted to know whether he could come pick him up during the day. The phone rang five times and nobody answered. That wasn't unusual, and so the hospital allowed half an hour before trying again.

This time Aidan groaned and looked at the time. A phone with a different ringtone buzzed him back into reality, but he needed a moment to remember where he was. Right, he smiled sleepily. Dean's bed. Then that had to be Dean's phone.

"Dean!" he called out with the slur of someone unusually sleepy, assuming him to be in the kitchen or the bathroom, "Phone call!"

Nobody rushed in to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing. Aidan frowned and closed his eyes again. It was none of his concern; if it was, they would have called him on his own phone. Snuggling into the bed sheets, he noticed that they were colder than they would have been if someone had been there not long ago, but, too sleepy, he didn't make the connection until his own phone rang in the pocket of his jeans, on the floor.

It took effort to make it in time, but he did.

"M'yeah?"

"Mr. Turner? This is Angela Smithson, from the George Washington University Hospital. I couldn't get in touch with Mr. Armitage’s contact. I thought, since you're listed as the contact for the guards, perhaps you can come pick him up?"

There were blanks in Aidan's memory, but he muttered an affirmative and hung up. Dean's phone lay still on the stand, a cable from it to a socket. Something niggled at the back of his mind. He wrapped the blanket around him against the cold and padded quietly to the kitchen.

Nobody there. Nor in the bathroom.

Something wasn't right.

Aidan knocked on the door to Richard's room. He received no answer, knocked again, and finally pushed the door open. "Adam? Ads, you awake? I can't find Dean. I'm sure he's on a walk or wh—"

Adam's room was empty, tidied up until it looked like he had never been there. Aidan' sleep-addled mind didn't know why that racketed up his adrenaline levels, but it did. He tossed the sheets on Richard's bed and started checking the room behind every door. A minute later, he was calling Dean's name loudly. Then Adam's. Aidan called Adam's cell phone because surely, none of this was what it seemed and he was making a big fuss over nothing. But Adam did not pick up.

Aidan sat on the couch and clasped a hand in front of his mouth. The Vigilante. He had Dean and Adam.

 _No,_ supplied his analytical mind, that wasn't right. Only Dean. The Vigilante had been right in front of them the whole time, and Aidan had not seen it. He thought he was going to be sick.

The Vigilante had Dean.

He was going to kill an innocent man. And Aidan had once hoped he would again, if only to give them more evidence to work with.

When he called Graham, his hands were shaking badly.

It took Graham awhile to get back to him. When he finally rang, the phone jarred him. "This better be good, Turner. I was at church with my family," he groused. "I got your _9-1-1._ What's going on?"

"Dean's gone." Aidan sounded nothing like his usual composed self. "Adam slept over in Richard's room and he's gone. I don't know how we could have been so blind. It all makes sense now, Graham. It's Adam. And he's got Dean." He took a deep breath that did nothing for his trembling. "He could be dead. Dean could be dead already."

Graham was silent for a moment, digesting what Aidan had told him. Adam—shy, bookish _Adam Brown_ —was the Vigilante? Suspected killer of at least ten people? And now he had his sights set on Dean? 

It took Graham only seconds to switch off his personal love (and it was love) of Adam to analyze things. Of course it was possible. It was more than possible. And it had been right in front of them the entire time. Adam had the skills necessary and the tools and equipment available to perform clean, undetectable kills. And he had the motive: vengeance. The catalyst had surely been when his mother's killer was released, far too early, from prison.

"All right, Aidan," he told his detective, who was obviously very distraught, "meet me at the precinct. We'll pull all of Adam's records, find out where he might be taking his vics. Pull it together, Aidan. We'll find him. We'll find him."

Aidan could do nothing but nod. He made sure he had a key of the house off the key rack, gathered his stuff and Dean's phone, and made it to the precinct as soon as he could. He was calm all the way there, but as soon as he saw Graham, he nearly collapsed. There were reasons why personal involvement was met with being pulled off the case. Aidan was the only one able to do this though, with Graham's support. He couldn't allow himself to perform less than his best this time.

"Graham," he smiled bitterly. "I'm so sorry. Look, I need everything you've got on him, even if it's personal. Everything. And every detail about the previous cases when my memory fails me. I don't know how much time we have. It's a good thing—" He stopped. The hospital. Richard. Oh, what was he supposed to tell Richard? Was he even supposed to pick him up?

The answer was easy. Yes. Richard knew. If the code to only kill murderers was no longer a code, then Richard too was in danger, and he didn't want that blood on his hands as well. "Can you pick Richard up from the hospital? They called me, woke me up. He's vulnerable as long as he's not with us."

"I'll get on it," Graham put a steadying hand on Aidan's shoulder. "You go down to HR and talk to Steve Hunter. Get Adam's file. Find as much history on him as you can, particularly any property he might own. That's the first place we look for Dean." He looked up and around the office. "Jed?" he called to one of his detectives who had just closed a case. "You're with me. I'm going to put you on babysitting duty this afternoon."

Jed groaned and pushed aside his laptop.

"It's nothing personal," Graham explained. "Aidan, go. Focus on work. We can do this. We do this all the time. Let's go, Brophy."

Aidan nodded with conviction. Graham's words managed to exorcize part of the paralyzing fear that gripped him. He ran up the stairs to Steve's office, knocked on the door and briefly wondered why he would be in on a Sunday morning, but was nonetheless glad that he was. "Hi," he said quickly. "All files on Adam Brown, as soon as you can get them. It's a matter of minutes, not hours." He sat down at the nearest table, opened his laptop and started his search.

Unbidding, the image of Dean locked in a trunk came to his mind. Aidan pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried not to think of it. "Steve," he asked, "really sorry to be asking you this, but could you fetch me something to eat after you get me everything you've got on Adam?"

When Steve slipped a Coke and a breakfast sandwich under his nose twenty minutes later, Aidan was lost in research. Adam had a small apartment in the city, but it was hardly the place to use as a murder site. It didn't even have a basement. He also still owned his parents' house in the suburbs, but it was currently being rented by a family. Again, it wasn't a place Adam could use for the sort of activities he enjoyed.

Clearly, the murders were taking place somewhere else...but where? Aidan racked his brain, trying to recall any special places Adam might have mentioned to him. Aside from a love of forensics and crime novels, Aidan realized he didn't know nearly enough about his coworker. He was struggling hard not to lose his mind.

\- - - - - 

He should have killed him in the trunk. That's what he always did. Adam had drilled a small hole near the latch, just the right size to run in some thin plastic tubing and gas the victim inside with CO2. It never took more than ten minutes to kill them.

But Dean wasn't like the rest. Despite coming into Adam's life and happening to be a psychic who also happened to be interested in stealing away the only man Adam had ever had feelings for. It wasn't Dean's fault—just bad, bad luck. 

Adam knew it was only a matter of time until Aidan sussed him out. He fully expected to be arrested or die. But he had done what he'd set out to do. He had avenged his mother's death and his father's long suffering. He had avenged many people's suffering and death. He felt good about that. And he knew that others did too. Even Dean had said he sympathized with the Vigilante. That was why Adam was going to help him instead of kill him.

Adam was going to _cure_ him.

He’s stolen two bottles of lactic acid from the crime lab. Lactic acid, in a more diluted form, was known to remove skin layers over time. He didn't have a lot of time, however. So he'd brought some of the non-diluted stuff. He planned to start with just one hand, brushing on the acid and taking off one to two layers at a time. He would keep going until Dean no longer had visions from touching stuff. If he was successful, he'd do both hands. Dean would surely be grateful.

If he got the whole way down to the muscle—to the bone—and the visions didn't abate? Well, by then Dean would be begging for mercy. He'd put him down. Dean would surely be grateful for that as well.

\- - - - - 

By noon, Aidan still had no idea where to look for him, and was getting more and more desperate. He had assigned Graham to flag his license plate for security cameras and ordered sharper surveillance on parking lots. But who was he kidding? Adam wouldn't be so stupid as to go through his old patterns.

Half an hour later, he leaned back in his chair, took a long, deep breath, and reached for Dean's phone.

"Richard, hi. This is Aidan. It's…something’s happened to Dean."

Richard, who had just pushed away the tray for what he hoped was his last meal eaten from a hospital bed, froze at Aidan's words. He felt blood draining from his face and fingers and could barely hold onto the phone receiver with his good hand.

"What happened?" he forced himself to ask.

Aidan looked at the clock. Time was ticking away, and he still had nothing useful. Richard needed to know. "I stayed over last evening, but Adam dropped by somewhere halfway. We were—we were mistaken in him. I think he drugged us. When I woke up, they were both gone." His hands still shook. "I'm so sorry. We have no idea where to look. They searched Adam's place already, and they've tried to see if CCTV was useful, but it wasn't. I—" He bit his lip. "If I send someone to pick you up, can you come over here as soon as you can?"

Martin, who was sitting in the armchair by the hospital room window, watched as Richard's face crumbled. He rose, concerned.

"Y-yes," Richard said softly, throat sounding tight, as he shooed Martin away. "I'm ready now, detective. Tell me, was Dean wearing his necklace?"

Aidan thought about that. "I think so," he finally said. He gestured at Graham to go get Richard immediately. Any time they lost was time they could not afford. "Do you have anything else we could research? Any ideas? I know you're new here, but new thoughts..." Truth be told, his thoughts were jamming and he needed someone to kickstart him.

"Give me an e-mail address I can send something to," Richard said sharply. "That necklace Dean wears...it's got a tracking chip in it. He doesn't know. I bought it for him after we ran into some trouble in San Francisco. It's registered with a national database. If I send you the tracking chip number, you should be able to track it, right?"

"You had him _tracked_?" It wasn't outrage. Right now this could be the difference between life and death, and Aidan refused to think of Dean as a lost cause. He didn't have the time to wait for pen and paper though. "Hanging up, message Dean's phone," he said quickly, hung up, and realigned his computer keyboard to be at the ready.

Looking over his shoulder, he noticed Graham had already left to retrieve Richard. He waved at Steve. "Get me a task force," he commanded. "I don't care; do whatever you need to do to make it happen. I'm going to give you an address and I expect you to get people down there within ten minutes."

He was going to owe his colleagues big time, because that was no way to address a superior.

A tracking code appeared on Dean's phone screen. Three minutes later, again on the phone with Richard, Aidan had an address.

"Don't waste manpower coming to pick me up. You _find him,_ " Richard voice was low, predatory, "you find him and Adam you make him _pay._ "'

Richard hung up the phone and sank to the bed, raking his good hand through his hair in frustration. He couldn't stop the tears that came unbidden at the thought of losing his best friend. 

Martin came to his side, not speaking, but instead sat next to him, offering silent comfort.

\- - - - - 

Cold. It was the first thing Dean noticed when he opened his eyes, once the initial dizziness subsided. His back, legs, arms were all in contact with a cold, hard surface he could feel, even through the thin clothing he was wearing. He couldn't move, and he was so _tired._

"A-Aidan?" the name came involuntarily, a croak from his dry throat. He could hear someone puttering around nearby, but there was no one within his limited line of vision.

Around him were walls that might have once been white, but had gone a dusky grey, the paint peeling. "Who's there?" he asked softly. "Where am I?"

"Aidan's not here, I'm afraid," Adam entered his view. He sat down next to him on a stool, wiping clean a whisk that had just been used for a chemical compound—Dean could smell that it had. He smiled without kindness and looked up at the single window in the room. The light came from two of industrial lights above them, so bright that they were almost blinding. "Nor do I believe he will be. I am sorry, Dean. You were such a nice guy. We could have been good friends; I honestly think we could have. I don't want to be doing this."

Dean shivered at Adam's detached tone, chillier than the room they were in. "Doing _what?_ " he asked, trying to sit up. He realized he was secured at the wrists, ankles and across his shoulders. "Adam," he tried to keep the quaver from his voice, but failed, "untie me. We should talk about this. There's so much I still want to know about you." 

"And so much I want to know about you, but that's just the problem, isn't it? You started knowing too much. If I'd given the time, you would have pointed everyone right at me. I did try to warn you." Adam got up from the table and walked away where Dean could not follow. 

Plastic curtains were hung everywhere, making it hard to discern where he was, but there was a distinct sense of it being dead. The surface of the table he was secured upon offered the definite answer when it flashed Dean with image after image of dead people cut open in the name of science and forensic investigation. One of them looked familiar. A previous victim.

Adam returned with a syringe, contemplated using it, and put it aside. "No, I need you bright and sharp for this. All right, why don't you be a good man and tell me which hand you favor?"

Flooded with horrific images of victim after victim, Dean shook his head in denial. "N-no, I can't believe it, Adam. What happened to your mother—and to you and your father—it was unforgivably horrible. But to become the very thing you despise? I've only just met you, but I can't believe you could be capable of killing all those people. Help me understand, Adam." He held his palms up off the table in an effort to control what he was seeing. "I know you don't want to hurt me. And you won't. You _won't._ I know you won't."

Adam leaned forward so close that their noses almost touched. "You don't understand. There are so many bastards out there. Animals, with no right to live. Unspeakable crimes, that's what they've committed, and they will continue. Do you think jail makes these people better? It only extends the time in which they can't do anything, but that time is repaid doubly when they get out. I wish it hadn't been you, Dean. I like you. But you see, if I let you go, think of how many monsters will remain out there, unchallenged to do as they pleased?"

He took a small bottle from the table, stirring it once before dipping a silicone brush into the solution. "Unless you get rid of your ability and forget about me. I wonder, Dean, if I can help you with that."

Dean tried not to look down at the brush, but once he'd seen it, it was impossible not to think about. "I _do_ understand, Adam. About horrible people. About what they deserve. It's why I do what I do. I've solved cases that had long gone cold and brought justice and closure to families. I understand the pain you feel, and I understand why you've done what you've done. And I like you." Dean swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. "You can't cure me, Adam. No matter what you plan to do right now...what I have—what I can _do_ —it won't go away. Please, whatever you're thinking of doing to me...don't." Dean blinked and a tear ran from each eye, much to his shame.

"But you've never tried this before," Adam said. He wondered about the effect. It would undoubtedly be unpleasant, much to his own discomfort, but who knew? Nobody had tried. If it was an ability that was connected to the nerves in his fingertips, then it could be done. "It's this or suffocation, Dean. Do you want to die like those murderers? You're better than them." He stepped closer.

"I don't want to die," Dean agreed, but he could tell his words didn't sway Adam's conviction. "I'm right handed," he said finally. "P-please...my hands..."

Unfortunately for Dean, that made Adam give up on taking it slow. He nodded, dabbed the brush in and focused on Dean as his hand, gloved in latex, held out Dean's left one, turned it palm up, and ran the acid up in several strokes, each one worrying previously touched skin over again. It burned its way into reddening skin until the top layer started to peel. Adam was transfixed by the effect of the lactic acid on healthy skin, and his attraction to the scientific part of what he was doing made him take a breath and suddenly pour half of the bottle's contents over the hand.

At first, it only tickled, and Dean thought to himself, _It's okay. I can handle this. It's not going to—_ and then the acid began eating through his skin in layers. It burned, like sunburn, then more like touching scalding water. Even that was bearable, if he was just able to take his mind somewhere else.

That worked, until Adam upended the liquid over his palm and the area erupted into a pain akin to hot lava. He heard the skin sizzle, smelled it burning. His gasps and whimpers turned to screams that no one but Adam heard.

After that, Dean drifted.

Adam kept Dean's wrist in his hand, watching the acid bite its way through. Not far enough yet, not yet, but as he waved the last few droplets off, he saw that the top few layers had successfully been removed. It would heal in time, as long as didn't need to take it further than this first stage. But Adam probably would, regardless of the results. It was simply fascinating.

He had paid attention when Dean had visions. His eyes would blink rapidly or close, and his pulse would go up. Whether it was a quiet memory or a violent one made no difference for that. So Adam waited for Dean to be lucid enough, then pressed one his mother's desert roses against his bared hand. "Let me see," he whispered. "Show me, Dean."

Dean whimpered. The flower, dried and desiccated, nevertheless felt like a razor blade in his palm. He closed his eyes, and in no time was back at Lenore's funeral, seeing it play out through the eyes of a small boy.

He was sitting in a chair, quiet and still. Adam didn't fidget. He stared at his mother's casket, willing her to get up, to come sit with him, to say it had all been a trick—a trick on him and Daddy and that everything was going to be all right. But it wasn't.

Aunt Amanda sat down next to him. Adam loved her. She looked like his Mommy, even though she wore glasses. When he went to her house, he got to play the piano and she made him pancakes shaped like letters of the alphabet.

She took Adam's hand in her own. "It's time, Adam," she said gently, tears in her own eyes. "They're going to close the coffin forever and bury your Mommy. Will you come up with me and say goodbye?"

But Adam had already said his goodbyes. He couldn't bear to look at his Mommy again. Even though the funeral people had tried, they didn't do a very good job covering up where she had been hit on the face. The cuts were still visible and the waxy substance they used to cover them didn't quite match her skin. She looked like Frankenstein, not his Mommy.

Dean opened his eyes, hoping Adam would remove the flower from his palm. "Your Aunt Amanda came to sit with you at your mother's funeral. She smelled like vanilla, and she played the piano. She wore glasses, but she looked a lot like your mother. She tried to get you to go to the coffin before they sealed it—but you wouldn't. You thought," Dean swallowed, trying not to cry, "you thought she looked like Frankenstein."

Adam looked at him sadly. "You know what I'll do for as long as you are able to see into my memories, and yet you tell me this. You're admirable, but with a poor sense of self-preservation. Would you like to rest a little? The next layer will take off more. You didn't lie like you could have though. That is deserving of respect."

He got up, reached for a glass of water and offered Dean a sip from a straw. Dean shook his head no, so Adam sat down again. "Aunt Amanda was a wonderful person. She was right, you know. I should have gone to see my mother one last time. I've had many dreams in which I did, but in most of them, she looked hideous. She's gone from me forever though. One more minute with her would be a blessing."

"I know," Dean agreed, because there really was nothing else to say. "You were robbed, you truly were. And of course I didn't lie, Adam. One thing you don't understand about what I do, is that I _have_ to tell people what I see. I see it for a reason, and you needed to know. If you respect me," Dean tried one last ditch tactic, "then let me read your hand instead of a flower. Let me _know_ you. Help me understand. I want to."

Adam wasn't keen to do as Dean asked him to, though one thought won out. What did he have to lose? Dean wasn't going to survive this, not in the end—unless Adam found a way to make him forget about everything that had happened—and he might as well offer him that last wish.

As he held out his hand, he heard a disturbance in the hallway. Adam raised himself to listen. It came from, well, from everywhere. He cursed. Adam knew that this day would come, but it should not have come _so soon_. He grabbed a roll of duct tape, cut it off at some ten inches and used it to cover up Dean's mouth. "This isn't over," he whispered. Then he disappeared behind one of the thick plastic curtains, leaving Dean to his own helpless devices.

Dean dared not hope help had come until he saw a friendly face. More urgently, he needed to let them know Adam was still at large. His hand was throbbing, the weight of the dried out desert rose still stinging his palm.

After what seemed like an eternity of shouting and scuffing, the sheet of plastic near him was pulled aside again.

"Graham!" Dean gasped as the tape was pulled off his mouth, "Adam's still in the building. H-he just ran out."

"I know." Graham laughed though, intensely relieved. His hands clasped Dean's shoulders, cupped his face, and grinned. "We've got the building surrounded. We'll get him. God, you're still alive. Someone's going to be very happy to be hearing your voice. Are you okay? You're talking to me, so you're not poisoned by fumes." If he was honest, then Graham had expected to find Dean somewhere in a parking lot, lifeless and gassed. "Watch my back for me while I'm getting you out of here." Graham started on the buckles.

He was alone. The rest of the team was scouring the premises, combing through the halls until they were sure they had forgotten nothing. The only way out for Adam would be underground.

"This place," Dean told him hurriedly, recalling something he'd seen earlier when he'd caught a vision from the table he'd been placed on, "it's an old mortuary, right? And across the street there's a retirement home...or there used to be at one time. There's a tunnel that leads underground across the street between the buildings that they used to bring bodies over. Look there."

He winced as Graham freed his left hand and pulled it protectively to his chest to check for damage. The skin was pink—red in places—and blotchy as if burned. He'd been expecting to see muscles and bones, based on the pain. He wondered how much worse it could have gotten if Adam had continued, how deeply Adam would have dug into his hand to try to cure him.

The dried flower fell to the floor and was forgotten.


	10. President's Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets reunited with Richard and Aidan. The Vigilante continues to evade capture.

Dean felt sick and wanted Aidan and Richard.

The other hand came free of the restraints less easily. Graham leaned towards the walkie-talkie, nudged it to transmit with his chin, and said, "Everyone. Suspect may be underground. Thomson, Dale, you keep an eye on the retirement home opposite this place, over." He smiled encouragingly at Dean, but his worry grew when he saw the hand. That had been Adam's work. And a second ago, he had felt bad about referring to Adam as the suspect. Graham got Dean fully free and took out his phone to call the precinct.

Aidan had been drumming rapidly on the table with a pen. He kept staring at the laptop, wondering what was missing in the big picture, what he wasn't seeing, when his phone rang. He grabbed it and jammed it onto speaker when his hands were so nervous that he knew he'd only drop the device. "Yes?" he called, "Graham? Did you find him?"

Graham knew he should hand Dean the phone. Instead he said, "Get us an ambulance. And meet me here as soon as you can. Keep your gun on you. Adam's still out there."

"I'm sorry, Graham," Dean told the Chief. "Adam wouldn't have acted out like this if I hadn't been brought in on the case. Is Aidan here? Is he somewhere safe? I feel like Adam might..." but he let the statement fall flat. He had done enough damage for one day.

"Adam might...?" Graham insisted. "There's an ambulance on the way. I'm not leaving you here alone. Can you walk? Aidan's on his way here now. He was at the office, trying to find other options, because we weren't a hundred percent sure we'd find you here. Richard is on his way to the office, but I'll call him and tell him and Jed to meet us somewhere in the middle." He looked at the hand again. It looked incredibly painful. To think that Adam—

"I know it sounds crazy," Dean murmured. "I know Aidan can take care of himself. But you see, Adam has a romantic interest in him and he might try to find him. I just want to make sure he doesn't," Dean's voice hitched, and Graham could tell Dean was barely holding it together. "D-don't want him to hurt Aidan. I'm sorry," he struggled off the table and to his feet, eyeing the implements Adam had amassed on the metal tray table next to where he had been secured. "Yeah, I want to get out of here, please."

The cold from the cement floor quickly began to seep through his socks. When they reached the doorway, Graham stepped to his squad car and pulled a blanket from the trunk, which he wrapped around Dean’s shoulders. Dean expressed his gratitude. The ground outside was still covered with snow.

It only took a few minutes for the ambulance to arrive. The cool wintry sky was pleasant and cleared up their heads, but it was obvious that they still hadn't found Adam, because Graham kept issuing commands and his team was scattered across two buildings. "Hold on," he told the medic when she wanted to take Dean in and leave. "He needs to be accompanied. He'll be here soon."

As it was, it was not Aidan who got there first. Jed's car pulled up in the distance and Richard got out. Graham nodded to the medic to take him along and go. "I'll see you later," he said to Dean. "Trust the man who's with Richard. He can protect you." The medic closed the door before Dean could protest, switched on the sirens, and took the ambulance in Richard's direction, where they stopped only briefly to let the two in, effectively removing them from the danger of the situation that still hadn't been brought under control.

Richard stared at his friend with a raw intensity. "They said you could have been dead," he whispered. Before Dean knew it, he had pulled him into a bone-breaking hug. The medic complained, but he ignored her. "We're moving, Dean. We're moving, and you're never getting yourself in this kind of mess again. Whatever we have to do to make that happen, we'll do it."

Dean didn't pull away from the circle of Richard's arms. He slipped his own right arm around Richard's waist, burying his nose in the comforting scent of Richard's leather jacket, his cologne, and the safety it telegraphed to him as they sat on the stretcher.

"Sir, you should lie down," the EMT cautioned. 

"It's my hand that's hurt," Dean held his left hand out to her, as much as he had hoped to hide the injury from Richard. "We are _not_ running away, Rich," he told his friend fiercely. "Not this time." 

"They didn't catch him yet, did they?" Richard asked. "I don't care what we have to do, but things need to change. What did he do to you? Your hand, what was he doing?" He didn't give the EMT much space, wrapping his arms strongly around Dean and not letting go. "I heard about you being taken. That Aidan guy called me. I...he was in the hospital yesterday. The Vigilante. He was so close, and we never knew. Do you realize in how many ways we were in danger?"

Dean nodded, feeling as if he might collapse without Richard there to hold him upright. "Yes, Richard. I know. It's all my fault. He could have killed you the other day, or _yesterday_." Dean lamented. "I'm so sorry. I'll never forgive myself for putting you in danger."

The med tech coated Dean's hand with some sort of thick salve, and he clung to Richard as he was assailed by visions of her childhood, her college, training. "Wish I had my gloves," he whispered.

Richard kissed his forehead. "I'll buy you new gloves as soon as I can," he promised. "We're going to the hospital. I'm sure they've got latex gloves for at least your good hand." He shook his head at the medic to tell her to touch him as little as she could, and kissed Dean against his forehead once again. "Don't beat yourself up over this. None of us suspected anything. Even his partner, the guy who kept offering to hit on me." He laughed quietly. "Let's just get through the day first, all right? One step at a time."

"I was so scared," Dean admitted quietly. "I have never been so scared." He raised his eyes to lock with Richard. "The partner—Aidan—he stayed over last night. And the night before," he smiled softly.

"To keep you safe. I understand." It was a bitter thought that so much attention from a man Richard wasn't sure what to think of, other than that he needed to get a stick removed from up his ass, had not been enough to prevent what had happened. There wasn't anything they could have done, though. Nobody had seen it coming. Richard was just glad he was out of the hospital and able to be that support for Dean.

Jed, seated in the corner of the ambulance, chose that moment to let them know he was around too. Richard didn't care about how they might come across, and didn't let go. "If you're talking about Turner," Jed said, "he's on his way to the hospital. He's armed. He won't be in danger, he knows how to handle these situations. Has been trained for it."

Richard felt Dean relax against him at the officer's words. 

"No, Rich," Dean whispered, so that only his room mate could hear. "In my _bed._ "

"Do you want something for the pain?" the EMT interrupted, securing the edge of the gauze at Dean's wrist with white adhesive tape.

"Not yet," Dean declined, shaking his head. He turned to Officer Brophy, "Let Aidan know where to find me once they get me there?" he asked him. "I'd really appreciate that."

Richard startled. He opened his mouth to talk, though no words came out that he was willing to share with one of Aidan's close colleagues and a medic who was already eyeing them in a way that suspected she thought they were together and about to make out. This, he could read in her eyes, was exactly why she disliked partners coming aboard to the hospital when the patients were not fighting for their lives. Richard finally got up and encouraged Dean to lay down on the stretcher. "You should get some rest," and he kissed him once, friendly, against his lips. "We'll talk when it's just us."

It wasn't just them for the rest of the day. As soon as Dean was assigned a bed in the hospital, Aidan was there, staring at him with big eyes but almost afraid to get any closer. Jed made sure he got out as soon as he could, instead choosing a place outside the door to stand watch until Graham got there. He didn't think he'd ever seen his mouthy colleague this quiet.

"You..." Aidan just stood there. He looked awkwardly between Dean and Richard, like a barrier had been drawn between Dean and him again by the presence of the third man. "Did he hurt you?"

Dean extended his right hand, which he was sure looked ridiculous to Aidan in an aqua-green latex glove. "I'm okay," he told him. "Need you, please."

When Aidan drew close, Dean hugged him tightly. "I was so afraid he had killed you," the blond confessed. "Left you dead in bed. It paralyzed me, not knowing."

Hands mapped his face to ascertain Aidan that this man under his touch was really alive and there in front of him. He didn't smile, not out of relief nor out of stress, but took a deep breath that—although he knew Richard was looking at him oddly—calmed his nerves greatly. Aidan glanced over at Richard once. Then he blocked him out and kissed Dean firmly on the lips. The old man in the bed next to Dean's gawked at the display and looked the other way quickly.

"I'm here," Aidan confirmed only for Dean to hear. "I'm so angry at myself for letting him stay. I knew I shouldn't let anyone but Graham and me close to you, but I thought—I assumed—" Aidan kissed him again. He suddenly chuckled, while his eyes started fogging up. "Your ex-boyfriend is looking at us. Just, are you okay, _really_ okay? You're hiding your hand from me. The other one."

Dean caressed Aidan's face. "I trusted Adam. We all did. Who wouldn't?" He kissed him again. "I'm so happy you're here. Aidan, Richard, you two remember one another, I'm sure?" he made a feeble attempt at re-introducing the two men. 

"Of course I remember," Richard smiled at Aidan and extended his hand to shake. "I wasn't hit on the head _that_ hard. Glad you were there for him," he told Aidan. "I'm sure things would have been worse if you hadn't been."

Things, Aidan thought, would have also been much better if that which had happened between the two of them, had not happened, but he didn't voice that. Aidan shook Richard's hand. "He won't get away. What he's done is inexcusable." And it really was. Adam, sweet, quiet Adam was responsible for gruesome murders. Even if it was a vigilante's work, he could have chosen a bullet or a poison. But Aidan knew what he saw, and he knew that it had been acid that disfigured Dean's hand. He pulled him close. "You two are staying with me until we get him. Or somewhere else if you prefer, but I want you under supervision. I don't want to give him the chance to get anywhere near you two." He nodded to Richard. "That Lee guy, fine, but everyone else is off limits for now. I hope you can understand why, and I hope it'll just be a short while."

There was a soft knock on the door frame and the three turned to see Martin standing there. His eyes took in the situation and he smiled. "I see they found you," he said to Dean. "I'm so glad. _This_ one," he jerked his head in Richard's direction, "he was worried sick. I stuck around to see how it all played out. Can I come in?"

Martin seemed very determined.

Dean slipped off his right glove covertly. "Martin," he reached for Martin's hand to shake it. "Yes, of course you can." What he saw when he clasped the professor's hand obviously made him smile. "We would have been disappointed if you left without saying goodbye."

"I couldn't leave," Martin clapped Richard on the shoulder. "Armitage and I never finished our debate about the causes of World War One."

"The assassination of Franz Ferdinand," Aidan couldn't help but break in. When he realized he had spoken out of turn, he grinned stupidly. "Sorry. That's what you've been talking about?" It was surprisingly in-depth, and he wished he would have been a part of that conversation. But right now, his attention was only on Dean, and seeing that he didn't flinch from reading him, Martin was allowed in. Aidan did whisper in Dean's ear, "Can you read him more fully later? I don't want any surprises."

Richard patted Martin in the shoulder just so. "It's good to see you again." He made no move to leave though. "You're good to go then?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," Martin smoothed his sweater down with both hands, despite the fact that he already looked impeccable. "I just have had such a nice time talking with you the past couple of days. It would be remiss of me to leave without saying some sort of goodbye. And I was thinking," he cleared his throat nervously, "wondering, perhaps, if when you're feeling more like yourself you might want to get together for coffee."

Dean raised his eyebrows knowingly at Aidan. _You see?_ the look said. He reached for Aidan's hand with his ungloved one, asking for permission.

Aidan offered it to him without a moment's doubt. He was baffled as he glanced between Richard and Martin, never having expected that while Lee was still in the picture—or so he thought. Aidan quite frankly wasn't sure what to believe any more.

Richard beamed a brilliant smile then. "Coffee would be wonderful, Martin. Sorry for how fast I left, I was planning on coming back to visit you, but I didn't think you'd be released today as well." He turned to Aidan. "Is coffee fine now?"

"Coffee is a wonderful idea," Dean told him. "I think I'm going to need to get some sleep soon anyway. The pills...I'm just really tired," he lay a kiss to Richard's cheek. "You two have a great time," he told them. "And no fighting."

As thrilled as he was that Richard was finally getting noticed, Dean was far more intrigued by was he saw when he held Aidan's hand.

Aidan's head was chaos, really. There was the stress of the last few hours, stress like Aidan had not experienced it before, and there was a warm glow that enveloped him now. It was nonsensical. The thoughts didn't shape themselves into memories or images, but in colors and moods. "I should get them a bodyguard," Aidan muttered to distract himself. "Give me a moment." He gestured to Jed to follow them, and turned his attention back on Dean.

It was just them and the old man in the corner bed. Aidan frowned when he noticed the company and drew the curtain between them. "So what's the deal with them?"

All at once he decided that there was no reason why he shouldn't kiss him. So Aidan did, wholly and with all his heart.

Dean smiled. "I really just kinda figured it out when I saw Martin in the doorway. I didn't know for certain until I shook his hand. Isn't it strange how things work out? Almost as if they were meant to be for a long time." He pulled his glove back on and reached down to pull the blankets up to his chin. "What a day, Aidan," he yawned. "I don't care to ever repeat it. Except for the sex. That we can do again."

"That was yesterday," Aidan challenged him. He was suddenly all but pushed aside by a doctor there to check up on Dean and run his analysis. Aidan was curious about that too, since Dean hadn't told him what had really gone on while he was in Adam's captivity. "So, no more Lee?" he wondered over the doctor's shoulder—receiving a glare in reply from the man. Aidan just smiled and directed his attention on him. "You think I get to take him home with me today?"

"I'm afraid not," said the young dermatologist, whose name tag read Dr. Luke Evans. "His injury isn't unlike a burn. I'd like to observe the healing process for at least 48 hours. As you know, it's a bad acid burn. Worst case scenario, you might need a skin graft."

"The only way I can allow that is if it's my own skin," Dean's eyes were wide. The prospect of having a stranger's skin on his hand, permanently...it short circuited his brain. "I'd like to avoid that, if we can." 

Luke peeled away the bandages, while Dean winced. Aidan saw Dean's injured hand for the first time. It was an angry red in the entire palm area, with lighter pink splotches extending up his fingers and down into his wrist. It looked, for all the world, as if it had been exposed to high heat. 

"There will be thickening and discoloration of the affected area," Dr. Evans informed them, "and when the new layers grow back, you may notice reduced sensations in the new skin. But there is no reason to think you won't have complete use of your hand, Dean. We just need to monitor for infection. The first 48 hours are crucial, so I can't let you go quite yet."

"There you have it, then," Dean squeezed Aidan's hand with his good one.

The man behind the curtain muttered something that made Dr. Evans wonder and push the canvas back, revealing the excluded other patient. He eyed Dean and Aidan, at which Aidan muttered, "It was a private conversation," and earned himself a less respectful look from the otherwise fairly considerate doctor, all things taken into account. Aidan wasn't going to let Dean stay overnight without him there to watch over him. It wasn't an option. 

Well, they would discuss that later.

Aidan couldn't keep his eyes off the wound. "Acid, you said?" he whispered, feeling like he was going to be sick, just as Graham came walking in. "He doused your hand in acid? Why? That's not how he's supposed to work."

"I think it's safe to say that Adam has gone off the reservation," Dean told him. He felt remorse at Adam's condition. "There is no warmth left in him, Aidan, and probably no logic either." 

He held up his hand, encouraging Luke to cover it back up. "He thought he'd try to cure me by taking off a couple layers of my skin with some sort of acid. He was using a paintbrush, but when that didn't work fast enough, he just dumped it. He would have kept going, maybe down to the bone, if Graham hadn't come. How did they find me, Aidan?"

Aidan had seen a lot in his days, but the thought of what Dean had been through brought bile to his throat. "Did it work?" he asked hoarsely. "It didn't, did it?" While the ability was troublesome more often than it was not, it was still Dean and as much a part of him as his smile and his tousled hair in the morning. Aidan had come to accept it as making him whole. "I can't believe Adam did that. It's not… well, he deceived us all. I called Richard when I thought there wasn't anything left I could do to find you. It's your necklace. He said he had it tracked. If Adam would have taken it off before taking you..."

Dean's right hand went to the crystal on the chain around his neck. "We ran into some trouble in San Francisco. Not as bad as this, but bad enough. Richard bought this for me after we moved and made me swear to never take it off. I didn't," he explained. "I don't. I guess I always kinda knew it was something like that, and I wanted to do everything I could to give him piece of mind."

He winced as Dr. Evans slathered his injury with cream and covered it with gauze. "Adam's cure didn't work. It made the visions stronger. But I think he would have been willing to keep going deeper, given the chance. I owe Richard my life," he suddenly realized. "And you, Aidan, for having the presence of mind to call him. Do you suppose they'll find Adam?"

Graham scraped his throat and finally stepped forward. He looked exhausted; while his hands were in his pockets, they looked tense rather than relaxed. "We didn't. He got away. We think Adam expected us to find him there, because he had everything planned out." He walked up to Dean and squeezed his shoulder. "You're alive though. He didn't get you. Now, I think I speak for everyone here if I say I could use a rest. He's flagged in the system and I requested a team to start working on it as soon as they can, but if it's okay with you, I would like to keep Aidan on stand-by for the next few days, and have Jed keep an eye on Richard."

"I'm not leaving him."

"No," Graham shook his head, "I'm suggesting you will be his formal guard while he's here. I'll arrange for anyone you point out to be the other guard. I want you armed and around him." He smiled with kinder eyes at Dean. "I'm really sorry. None of this would have happened if it weren't for us involving you."

Adam still being in the wind was not something Dean had hoped to hear. "Adam would have cracked sooner or later," he told them both. "He's so fragile. You have no idea. I'm not sure how he's functioning, to be honest. He needs help. Psychological help. If you can avoid hurting him, please do." He turned to Aidan, "Richard needs to know. I want him somewhere safe, just in case. What if Adam tries again?"

"I could appoint Richard the other guard?" Aidan wondered aloud at Graham. Dr. Evans was momentarily forgotten as he worked on Dean's hand and then took a step back but stuck around, because these were things he needed to hear.

"Richard's a civilian," said Graham.

"He's one of the few people I trust around Dean right now."

"And Jed?"

"Less than Richard. I mean, if Dean's okay with it. And I want GPS trackers on both of them for as long as Adam's out there. Sorry, Dean, you don't get to say yes or no to that." Aidan kissed him on the cheek, lingering a little too long for it to be casual. "I think it's best we don't ask you to read anything for us until it's absolutely necessary. How does that sound?"

"I..." Dean's voice trailed off. "You don't understand. I want Richard to _be_ guarded. Adam told us Martin was his professor at university. What if Adam tries to contact him, asking for help? He's with Richard."

Dean was growing tired from the pain meds. "I need to sleep," he told them all. All the attention was making him self-conscious. "I'm sorry. If you find any items you think might help locate Adam, then yes, please call on me to read them. Even if I'm asleep. I feel as if I was a catalyst in this. If I can help fix things, I want to." He reached for Aidan's jacket hem and pulled on it. "Stay with me?"

Dean didn't understand that Aidan didn't want to separate him and Richard again. Aidan squeezed his hand, ignoring the lack of a glove. "Of course I'll stay. I'm your personal bodyguard from now on, remember?" he mused. Underneath that layer of easy words lay something a lot more serious. "We'll see if something comes along that we need to read. When there's no necessity, you won't. Let me do what I'm better at than anyone else. We've got enough to go on."

He glanced at Graham and told him to fix him his laptop and an internet connection without words, then sat down on the chair next to his bed and allowed Dean his peace while bidding everyone else to leave.

Dean watched silently, eyelids growing heavier and heavier, as Aidan set up his small command center on a rolling table. Aidan's hands worked with such surety and confidence. Dean felt safe, despite their failure to catch Adam, and finally he allowed himself to sleep.

\- - - - - 

The large square clock overhead struck three times, announcing the middle of the afternoon. He was in the center of the world, with masses of people crowding around him on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Some of them looked at him oddly as he stood trying to catch his breath and keeping an eye on his environment at the same time, but most of them didn't care. He laughed nervously to himself.

He had made it out. He was safe.

But while he had planned his exit meticulously, Adam had no idea where to take it from here. He couldn't go home, nor could he go to relatives. Aidan was lost to him. It stung worse than he liked to admit.

Adam kept a spare vehicle, packed with suitcases of clothing, credit cards and IDs in another name entirely in a storage facility in Northern Virginia. All he had to do was get in his car, which he had hidden in the middle of a church lot down the street, get to his storage garage, and he'd be golden.

He slipped on a wool cap and sunglasses, further blending into the crowd. No doubt Dean had already seen a doctor and his hand was on the mend. He was genuinely disappointed that he hadn't had the chance to see his experiment through to the end. 

He also would have liked to have spent more time with Dean, having his captive read him. Adam had forgotten that interaction he'd had with his Aunt Amanda at his mother's funeral—at least, he didn’t remember it as clearly as Dean had recounted it. He wondered how many other wonderful things Dean could tell him.

But that was a lost opportunity. Adam Brown was no more. 

He stuffed his hands in his pockets against the cold and buried his nose further into the woolen scarf. His phone rang. Adam looked at the dial screen and let go of breath he hadn't known he was holding. Aidan. He canceled the conversation, took out the battery and, a block down the street where nobody was looking at him, he tossed it covertly into a bin.

The end of a life.

"Hey." A tall man with a smile stopped in front of him and started walking backwards to keep up with his persistent stride. "Adam, wasn't it? We met at the hospital. Lee."

"Lee, yes, hello," Adam appeared to be distracted, and slightly fidgety. "I'm running super, super late," he said in what he hoped was an apologetic tone. "I've really got to get moving. I'm sorry. It _was_ very nice to see you again."

Lee blinked and stepped aside to let Adam pass. "Sure. See you soon." He looked at Adam retreating and thought that his hurry was odd, but he didn’t think anything of it. It did remind him of Richard, and he picked out his phone to call him. "Hi," he smiled at the deep familiar voice, "how're you feeling today?"

"Lee?" Richard could barely hear Lee's voice over the conversations around him at the coffee shop. "I'm good, good. I got released this morning. I'm just...taking it easy with a cup of coffee. In fact, you must remember Martin. He was my roommate at the hospital? He got sprung too, so we're celebrating."

"You're—oh, that's good to hear! I remember him. Short guy, blond hair right?" Lee soon forgot about Adam in favor of Richard. "So hey, I was wondering, are you doing something tonight? I'm standing opposite the biggest Christmas tree in the city right now and I think it'd look wonderful at night."

"To be honest, Lee, and please don't take this as a brush-off," _even though it probably is_ , Richard thought to himself, "I'm really tired. I was just planning to go home and rest. We had a bit of a scare today. Dean was abducted from our house by The Vigilante. Turns out, he was actually a cop."

Lee gasped. He thought back to how hurried Adam had appeared. Turning around, there was no sign of him, even though it had been less than half a minute. "Okay," he nodded absently. He should have asked if Dean was all right. Instead he asked with growing apprehension, "Listen, do I know him?" 

He needed Richard to say no to that.

"You might have met him briefly," Richard told Lee. "He was in my room for awhile yesterday afternoon. His name is Adam Brown, a forensics expert at the precinct. When I found out he was a murderer—that he's probably the person who shoved me down the stairs—well, it's really hard to believe." 

Richard paused a moment, then told Lee, "He's still on the loose, Lee."

Lee stared. Christ. "Get to President's Park," he said, numbly. "I think I just ran into him. He seemed in a hurry. Sunglasses and a knit cap, dressed like he's hiding from something. Not you, I mean. The police." He scanned his surroundings to find a place where he could mingle with the people and get lost under the cover of anonymity. Adam, a murderer? "He's going somewhere."

"I'll call someone. Don't confront him!" Richard said curtly and disconnected the call. 

Seconds later, he had dialed the number on the card Graham had given him. "Detective McTavish," he said breathlessly. "This is Richard Armitage. A friend of mine—who met Adam yesterday in my hospital room—claims he just saw him entering President's Park. I—I just wanted to let you know right away. He's on foot."

Graham, fresh from a shower and having promised his wife he wouldn't be going anywhere for the rest of the day, found himself in a car within several minutes. He offered Gwen a quick kiss, then pressed the phone back against his ear. "President's Park. Where are you now? Did Aidan put you under surveillance? And your friend? Tell him to get out of there. If Adam recognizes him, he could use him. We cannot afford that. I'm on my way there. Call him."

He hung up and, rushing through the traffic, wondered if he should call Aidan. Graham decided against it. He rang everyone else on the team, told them to gather in front of the Christmas tree and cursed his luck.

Twenty minutes later, he cursed it thrice, as cuffs took away the freedom of a man most dear to him, pressed into the dirt with his knee jammed in the man's back.

Graham was truly sorry.

"I'm sorry I let you down, Graham," Adam told him, when they were alone in the back of a police cruiser. "I had to do it. I know it's impossible for you to understand. But they needed to pay. All of them."

Adam wasn't smiling; wasn't crying. He was just saying what he felt to be true.

"Dean didn't need to pay," Graham sad sadly. His eyes were not on Adam—they couldn't bear to watch him now. "It feels like I don't know you any more, Adam." The knowledge negated all those times spent with laughter, all those moments that Graham had felt protective about the man next to him. There was nothing that needed protection in him anymore. Adam was ruthless. It was a miracle Dean still lived, but regardless, Adam had used acid on him; on a colleague.

"You're right. He didn't. That was selfish. He was...standing in my way," Adam's voice wavered. "I panicked."

Adam was silent for a few moments, watching flurries of snow fall past his window. Then he said, "I can't go to jail, Graham."

A painful silence grew between them. Graham didn't want to voice that even though the Adam he knew didn't, the Vigilante _did_ belong there. He had no way out. If he let him go, he'd be an accomplice as well as someone putting Dean in danger. "I'm going to transfer you into different care when we get there," he acknowledged finally. "I am prejudiced. It'll not be good."

"Graham," Adam turned his face to him, "when we get to wherever you're planning to take me, I want you to let me shake from your grip. I'm going to run, and I want you to shoot me. I want you to shoot me, and kill me. I _can't_ go to jail. Do you understand? If you ever, ever, thought kindly of me, will you do this?'

"No! No, of course I won't! You spent your life taking care of those who transgressed. Even while you yourself were killing others. I can't bear to shoot you. Don't make me, Adam," Graham whispered fearfully.

"You're a good man, Graham," Adam told him. 

He steeled his face back into neutrality and turned back to the snowflakes.


	11. Every Day is a Fresh Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly everyone gets what they want.

**_'Vigilante' Deemed Fit to Stand Trial_ **

_Adam Brown, the D.C. Metro police officer recently unmasked as the Vigilante, has been found competent to stand trial for 11 counts of first degree murder. Despite several witnesses testifying on behalf of Brown and his declining mental state — foremost among them a man who was nearly a victim himself — Judge Peter Hambleton handed down the decision that Brown was of sound mind at the time of his spree and will stand trial._

_Evangeline Lilly, Brown's attorney, still feels she can convince a jury that Brown is mentally unstable._

Dean pushed the newspaper aside, along with the last of his dinner, and sighed. "Poor Adam," he lamented to Aidan. "They'll eat him alive in jail."

Socked feet nudged his knee and when he looked up, Aidan offered him consolation. Aidan was still getting used to the Christmas tree and the needles that occasionally got underfoot. Once, he had accidentally knocked off a Christmas ball and had guiltily cleaned it up before Dean could find out, but he had been extra careful around the tree since. Upstairs, they heard Richard walk about, looking for something. "Would you like to visit him? Or, I don't know, do something else that makes him feel bit better?"

Aidan hadn't wanted to come along at first. He had thoroughly disliked Dean standing up for the man who had wanted to kill him. But one look at Adam looking so lost in his orange prison jumpsuit had made his heart clench. It was still Adam. He had done horrible, horrible things, but he was still hard to stay angry with. He had been a good friend.

"I don't think I should," Dean told him. "Go see him, that is. I think I prefer supporting him from a distance. I think I've done all I can. I won't argue that he needs psychiatric help, but I'm not the one to give it to him." He squeezed Aidan's knee gently, circling with his thumb. "You should go see him if you want to."

"I...not really, not without you." Aidan knew that wasn't fair, but then having a hard time staying angry with Adam didn't mean he didn't remember the fear that had taken him when he had thought Dean had been taken from him. "I doubt Richard wants to see him. Maybe we could send Martin there with a bouquet of flowers or something? Do you think we can badger him into that?" Maybe Richard could convince him.

"I'm not sure Martin's quite gotten over the shock yet," Dean raised his hand to move a stray curl away from Aidan's forehead. Although his injured hand was no longer bandaged, he still kept it gloved and in his lap. "But that might be just the ticket, Aidan." He turned to Richard when he came walking in, "So, have you made up your mind yet?"

"Am I _supposed_ to be making up my mind?" Richard chuckled uneasily under the attention of two men while he was still fixing his tuxedo. "It's just the college faculty Christmas party, but they insist on it being a formal event." That, and Lee would be there. Aidan didn't need to raise an eyebrow for that to be out there between the three of them. "So how do I look?" He paused, stopped, and sighed. "You're plotting things, aren't you?"

Aidan grinned. "Are you seeing Martin soon? Could you relay a message?"

"Which is?"

"Maybe Adam would like to talk to him."

Richard closed up. "Maybe Adam wants a lot of things, but I don't see how that makes it my concern."

Dean smiled at Richard's protective obstinance, feeling a welling up of love. " _I'll_ call him," Dean assured Aidan. "Or I could ask him on Christmas Eve when he comes over. That’s only two days from now." 

It was obvious to Dean that Martin was crazy about Richard and had been since the moment they'd met. 

"So, how will we pass the time tonight?" Dean asked Aidan.

"There'll be Christmas movies," Aidan mused. Of course he didn't want movies. It was the first time since Dean had been taken that Richard would be out for the night, and Dean's bandage had come off a few days ago, which meant that Aidan had plans. He could tell that Richard knew, because he was giving him that 'you be careful with him' look, not unkindly.

"I'll tell him," Richard smiled. "Now, I've got a date in a few minutes and I'd really appreciate your input. Is this okay?"

It was. He looked impeccable, and his insecurity about it was both endearing and annoying. While Richard kept stalling, fidgeting, Aidan at last all but shoved him out the door and turned the lock after him. "Merry Christmas, Richard!" he called out.

When Aidan returned to the kitchen, he was a changed man and smiled suggestively.

"Must you bait him?" Dean grinned, putting the dishes in the sink and starting the water to wash them. "He knows the only thing I'm in danger of tonight is being molested by you...or is it the other way 'round?" he slipped on a pair of yellow latex gloves and turned to the task of cleaning up.

Aidan was behind him without a sound. He nuzzled Dean's neck and wrapped an arm around him. Kitchen duty usually took a very long time when Aidan was around and Richard in a different room—or when he was in the room and Aidan was feeling particularly obnoxious. It didn't matter to him that the man was currently on very friendly terms with two other men; Richard remained Dean's ex and for that, Aidan was mindful. "I think we should just have it both ways. He'll be out all night. There's no reason you can't clean up later."

They were surprisingly steady. Neither of them had proclaimed they were in a relationship, but somehow they just were. And Aidan liked it. It was decidedly less dramatic than most of his flings had been. It helped that he didn't want to hurt Dean in any way, and he couldn't bear to see him leave. Sometimes he reminded himself not to be such a lovestruck fool, but those moments were really few and far between and even when they happened, he knew it was a pointless question.

As soon as he felt Aidan's arms encircle him, Dean knew it was useless to keep up the charade of housekeeping. He felt his knees give way, as they often did in Aidan's presence, and he dropped the sponge and plate into the sink in favor of turning to kiss him.

"I've wanted to do that since the second you walked in the front door tonight," Dean explained when they pulled apart breathlessly. 

"Richard's out now," Aidan kissed him again. "Nobody's stopping you." He hoisted Dean up on the counter and tried not to get him wet, twisting the tap shut behind his back. His hands tugged Dean's knees on both sides of his own frame. It gave Dean the height advantage, but Aidan couldn't care less about that—in fact, he rather liked it. "You can't have missed me wanting Richard out all night. I want you, Dean. I've had enough of waiting and being quiet."

Aidan's face bore a look of passionate desperation that made Dean's heart speed up. He stripped out of his left glove, baring his recently injured hand to the light. The palm was still pink, but thick with new skin. The hand would never quite look the same, but all the fingers bent and he was still able to perform acts of psychometry with it. Adam hadn't succeeded in curing him. If anything, it had made his visions more intense.

Dean raised the hand and caressed Aidan's cheek, thumb lovingly tracing the high cheekbone.

Aidan moved just so and took the digits between his lips, where his tongue could brush along the most receptive part of Dean's fingers, right at the tip. He no longer wondered what his partner was about to see—all right, maybe a little—and instead focused on creating new memories. His gaze latched onto Dean's. Unexpectedly, the free hand pulled Dean's hips up against Aidan's own. Aidan rolled his present hardness for the man up against him as a hint and bit his lip at the following sensations. "Oh fuck. Can I just undress you now and have you here?"

"Shit," Dean murmured. "Shit, _yeah,_ " he practically moaned. "Right here."

He pulled his hands away to give Aidan access to whatever he wanted.

Aidan took the necessary step back to divest himself of everything he was dressed in, himself, before pulling Dean's shirt up over his head and tossing it behind him onto the kitchen table. He was brimming with anticipation, the grin on his features tell-tale of how eager he was and how impossible it would be to break them up now. If Richard would come knocking, he'd have to wait. Dean needed to stand for Aidan to push down the trousers and underwear, though Aidan thanked him for his cooperation by immediately sinking to his knees and taking him into his mouth.

The moan Dean let out verged on pornographic and he raised his hands to steady himself against the marble counter top behind him. Six feet away was the sliding glass door that led onto their back patio. It was covered by a thin sage green curtain. 

_No one is watching us,_ Dean assured himself. _It's only me and the man I love._

He couldn't tell if it was Aidan's talented mouth or his own realization that made his knees weak.

Aidan pulled away with a wet sound. He was about to smile up at Dean with a look full of promise when he noticed Dean sway on his legs. Aidan stretched to his feet and lifted Dean back up on the sink for support. He followed with a kiss that tasted of his lover and was fueled by desire. Again he tugged Dean's legs on both sides of his hips and closed the distance until their cocks touched. "Hi," Aidan breathed out. He pulled him closer until Dean's weight was barely on the counter any more, but more of him was available for his hands. "Hold on to something."

Dean, who usually had no trouble expressing himself, was rendered speechless. His brain short-circuiting, he heeded Aidan's advice and wrapped his right hand around the spigot for support.

"What are you—?" he started to say.

Aidan kissed him silent.

Had someone mentioned it to him that Dean was so receptive, so eager to allow him, he would have looked at him twice and failed to match it with the do-no-harm image of him, the image that Aidan had only been able to let go of after Dean had mounted him, that first night. He coated one of his own fingers with saliva and brought it down between them. "Take a guess," he spoke hotly, right before circling the hot puckered hole that would, he hoped, soon give him entrance.

Dean's head fell back against the cabinet and he whimpered. "God, yes," he whispered. "Aidan, I've been aching for you—to do this again," he clarified. With little leverage, all he could do was spread his legs even further and pull Aidan in by his hair for a kiss. "Do it."

The first finger pushed itself in as though Aidan had been waiting for the permission. He nipped Dean's exposed chest wherever he could reach, and tugged sharper on a nipple, all the while breathing heavier thanks to the promise that wrapped itself fitly around his index finger. The pile of dishes behind them rattled in mild protest. "You're—" Aidan shook his head, "—so incredibly tight." They needed lube, or for Dean to lie down and make this easier, but by now any movement away from the support of the counter and Dean spread out for him on top of it posed a challenge that he wasn't willing to take up.

His free hand dug into the muscle of Dean's back and Aidan rolled his hips forward. He was yet untouched, but he wanted it more than anything.

Dean hissed, then chuckled. "Try this," he hooked his ankle behind Aidan's thigh and pulled the man closer, stretched a little to his left and slid the butter dish—which Richard had carried to the counter, but not put away—towards him. "Or we could...you know," he tilted his head towards the upstairs, "take this party somewhere else. Somewhere we both won't end up with permanent injuries."

The butter didn't look particularly pleasing, especially if Aidan wanted to go for what he'd been thinking of. He chuckled, crooked his finger and kissed Dean on the mouth. "I don't want to take this anywhere else, but there have got to be different solutions. Oil?"

"That cabinet over there," Dean pointed. "It's where we keep our spices and stuff. Take a look. Just, stay away from the jalapeno oil, okay?” he smiled.

Dean loved that his sex life was going from zero to sixty...and he was about to be fucked _in his kitchen._ He wasn't even sure he should tell Richard about this.

"No spices," Aidan agreed. He apologetically extricated himself from Dean, who looked so incredibly enticing, propped up with his legs spread and his eyes fluttering closed like that. As quickly as he could he tried to find a fairly scentless oil. Olive oil. Well, it could be worse. He cast Dean a look for approval, then uncapped the bottle and coated his fingers quickly. Several drops spilled. He ignored them in favor of getting the oil transferred back to Dean, where instead of returning to stretching him, he wrapped the slick hand around his neglected member. 

"You okay?" Aidan asked against Dean's ear. "If you really want, we can take you this to the bedroom, but you look so hot looking like you're now."

"Here’s great. Perfect. I like watching you touch yourself," Dean confessed. "I'll admit I've avoided touching you there with my bare hand so far. I'm afraid of what I might learn. And I don't want anything to change how I feel about you." He bit his lip. "That really came out wrong. I'm sorry. I know you have a past. You told me. I just don't need to see it. Not if I plan to be your future."

Aidan veered in for a tentative kiss. "I hope you'll touch me eventually. I don't care, Dean. My past is written in stone, but my future can be whatever we make of it. Your past lives with you," he referred to Richard, "but although I'm very glad he's not here right now, I'm fine with him." He smiled gently, which stood in stark contrast to the way his fingers wrung pleasure from Dean. Aidan wasn't afraid of the man's hands. But, since Dean didn't use them on him, he leaned closer until he could wrap the oiled hand around both Dean's cock and his own in the same grip. Aidan groaned.

Dean threw back his head and volleyed the groan back, grinding down on Aidan's agile, probing fingers. "In me, lover," he begged. "Please. I'm dying for it, for _you._ "

"What happened to taking our time?" Aidan whispered hotly, all the while working in his second finger. He had no patience for a third, not with the tightness of Dean beckoning him and his cock sliding along Dean's in a deliriously dirty way. "We have all night."

His hand let go and the other pulled away. Aidan pulled Dean closer to the edge of the counter. It wasn't a particularly convenient place to be doing this, though the way Dean looked and felt when he pushed his way in was more than worth it.

"It seems like a good idea, in theory," Dean tensed and bit down on Aidan's shoulder. "Then I get near you and all my theories go out the window. But," he whispered wetly in Aidan's ear as Aidan seated himself fully, "we still have all night."

Aidan wasn't paying attention to another word Dean said. He gasped at the pressure, not stopping until he was all the way in. When he was, the time he offered for Dean to adjust felt like ages. Aidan couldn't hold back. He started a slow, tantalizing pace. "You should feel what I'm feeling, Dean," he whispered. He jerked his hips up once, groaned and bit in his lover's shoulder. "Tell me you're good. I want to move inside you so badly."

"I'm good, I'm good," Dean encircled Aidan's waist with his legs. "You're right where I want you," he whispered, breath hitching when Aidan started to move. The counter was hard, cold and unforgiving beneath him, but Aidan's efforts more than made up for it.

 _I'm having sex...in my kitchen,_ he chuckled to himself, _with the hottest man on the planet._

This was not something he'd ever seen coming.

Aidan set a careful pace. He broke that pace once or twice and consequently sent the dishes rattling or one of the cupboards protesting, which brought him back to the pace that was just the perfect balance between showing his boyfriend the edge of cosmic pleasure and not tearing the kitchen down. It was insane to be inside of him. Dean was smaller than him, which made him tight at the best of times and which made Aidan feel like he was going to pass out when he finally came at others.

And then Dean had these small habits that _did things_ to him. Aidan captured his lips, nearly bit, and pounded into him, coming closer and closer to his orgasm. "...Fuck."

"So _good,_ " Dean murmured, clinging to Aidan's sweat-slick back, heels digging into the backs of his thighs and toes curling on their own volition.

That first time together, how amazing it felt, wasn't a fluke. They fit together remarkably well, as if they were custom-made for each other. Aidan's thrusts nailed his prostate on nearly every sweep and he could barely control the noises spilling from his lips. Nor could he control when he came and panted, "I love you. Love you so much."

"Fucking—yes!" Aidan exclaimed, thrusting into him with everything he had. As soon as Dean came undone around him and clenched around him in that natural way to push Aidan out, he lifted him from the counter and used gravity to keep his boyfriend as deep as he could. But Aidan's legs, already trembling, barely supported the extra weight and they sank down until he was helplessly rutting into Dean against the lower row of cabinets, brought to his knees as he was.

He needed little more than the rhythmic slapping of wet skin against wood to collapse, cupping Dean's chin to lead his swollen lips to his own, and hold onto the edge of the counter as Aidan came. "I love you," he grinned, elated. It was early to say it with anyone else, but it was right with Dean. "Tell me I can keep you."

Dean nodded, too wrung out to do anything else. "I didn't mean to freak you out, using the _L-word_ like that," he murmured against Aidan's lips. "But I guess I must—love you, that is."

He lay his hand over Aidan's racing heart and chuckled as he caught a glimpse of Aidan bent over the table in his office-slash-reading-room. "Oh, naughty. Such wicked fantasies you have, Aidan. I'll try to make them all come true for you."

Aidan was still breathless when he turned to him. "You're seeing things that haven't happened yet?" He was momentarily amazed and surprised that such a thing was possible, but then shook his head at Dean's other words. "Love, it's love. Crazy, isn't it, how fast that happened?"

"Uh, I guess I saw what you were hoping for. At least, I _hope_ you're hoping for it...because there is no way I'm going to be able to stop thinking about fucking you on that table now," Dean squeezed Aidan's ass with his other hand. "It's as if we were destined to meet," he told Aidan, caressing his cheek. "That first day, when I first saw you climb out of Graham's car, with a scowl on your face, I felt it then."

Aidan kissed the palm of his hand. He shook his head. "I don't believe in destiny." He didn't. He had thought Dean to be a bit of a floating person, whom reason meant nothing to, when they had first met—certainly not anyone he could have pictured himself falling in love with. But as it was, Dean was a lot less holistic than Aidan had given him credit for, and definitely far more in touch with getting and receiving bodily pleasure. His open-mindedness proved an incredible turn on. The only sliver of fate in there had been Adam burning the evidence and threatening Richard and Dean. Nonetheless, Aidan was grateful for whatever had brought them together like this.

"So," he chuckled, "the table fantasy. All right. But later, okay?" He pushed Dean a little further up the door of the cabinet with himself still inside and shuddered. "You know how to wear me out."

"Well," Dean shifted, squeezing Aidan's overly sensitized erection with his inner muscles, "whether you believe in destiny or not, you've got me now. 

Dean didn't have to be psychic to know that it was the start of something incredible.

\- - - - - 

Adam hated orange. The oversized jumpsuit made him look sallow and weak. But he wasn't weak. He'd been jumped twice already by men who thought his size would make him easy prey. One had walked away with a broken wrist and the other with a loss of sight in his left eye.

The warden had seen fit to separate him from the rest of the general population. He was a policeman who had taken to killing convicts getting out of prison. That pretty much made him hated by everyone he ran across.

Prison was not for him. Death would have been better, but Graham had refused him that request. He supposed he couldn't blame him. It took a special type of person to be able to kill when it wasn't in self-defense, and only those like him could truly understand. 

He trudged to the visitor’s area, a guard’s hand solidly holding onto his upper arm. A few minutes. He had a visitor, they said. Whoever it may be, it would be a pleasant distraction. Adam was surrounded every day with the scum that his moral code had compelled him to put down. To fight that urge was a daily struggle. The door opened and closed behind him and the guard by his side. He blinked when he saw Martin there.

It was the last person he had expected. Wasn't Martin supposed to be repulsed by what Adam had done?

Yet he sat calmly and smiled at Adam when their eyes met. Martin said something that wasn't audible, until Adam sat down in front of the glass and picked up the phone receiver there and he repeated his words. "Hello, Adam. It's good to see you again."

"Doctor Freeman," Adam was genuinely surprised. "I—I'm so glad you came. I didn't think you would. Obviously you got my letter." Adam had never forgotten the address of Martin's office on campus. "Does this mean you've thought about what I've asked? The court wants me to have regular psychiatric visits. Will you do it?"

Martin had thought about what to say several times. He smiled gently in the end and nodded. When he looked at Adam, the man stuck out like a sore tooth in this volatile environment. He looked helpless. It was hard to reconcile that image with the one responsible for those gruesome murders. "It's better if you have a friend in here, isn't it? If you want me to help you, I would like that. How have they been treating you in here, Adam? Have you been doing okay?"

"It's," Adam cleared his throat and tears sprung with surprising quickness to his eyes, which he quickly wiped away, "it's _bad_ , Martin," he confessed. "But I'm getting what I deserve, aren't I? The American justice system prevails."

His joke fell flat, so he added, "I'm happy to see a friendly face."

"Well, that's not how you think the system should work, is it?" There was no bite behind Martin's words. The way Martin saw it, Adam had thought the men who had done unspeakable crimes shouldn't have been allowed back in society ever. But they had, just like Adam one day would be. "It's truly good to see you again. Your friends miss you at the precinct. They complain that you would have gotten the job done much faster than your substitute. It's not very fair on him," he chuckled, "you were, after all, an expert, and he's new to the job. Have you let them pay you a visit yet?"

"I don't want people I care about to see me like this," Adam confessed. "And, Martin, I know what I did was wrong. I'm not insane like Dean says. I just got carried away once I started. I deserve this. I deserve to die for what I've done." He looked down at his clasped hands.

"I was nearly killed two weeks ago. Someone jumped me," he told Martin. "I realize now I should have just let it happen—let him kill me. But then the warden got a wild hair up his ass to put me in a more solitary environment _for my own safety,_ " he bit his lip. "I suppose any opportunity I would have had to end it all are long gone. I'm on some sort of sadistic suicide watch, although I feel hatred from every face I see. They all want me dead, yet nobody allows it to actually happen."

"I don't want you to die." They were easy words for someone not about to be sentenced for life, but Martin was resolute in his words. "You've got a hearing soon. I'm not saying that what you did was right, but people can change, can't they? They can atone for what they've done. If you killed yourself now, that person who would have gotten out of this place stronger will never exist." He smiled sadly. "And I do love our conversations. Is there anything I can do? Get you a notebook, a cinnamon roll from down the street, anything?"

Adam gave Martin a rare, genuine smile. "You're a good man, Dr. Freeman. I feel it was fate that we ran into one another again."

He swallowed thickly and continued. "I thought killing the man who killed my mother would make me feel better. That it would bring some sort of closure to my father—to me. But it only made me feel worse. And it made me into someone my mother would have been ashamed of. I'm ashamed of what I've become. All I can see when I close my eyes is that little boy, and the hate he carried inside him all those years. What horrible, horrible cargo." Adam took off his glasses and blinked and a tear ran from each eye. "Whatever happens to me at that trial, Martin, I deserve it. That little boy doesn't deserve it, but I do."

His guest shook his head. "You've thought and learned, Adam."

The guards were starting to look on the clock. It was almost time for Adam to return back to where he belonged now. Martin took a deep breath. "When given the chance, you run. You don't kill yourself. Promise me that." It was cryptic on purpose. Martin was no accomplice and he knew that every now and then, these conversations were taped, but nevertheless it felt like there was more to his words than simple advice.

Adam tilted his head and met Martin's eyes. The look of certainty there told that what Adam thought he had heard—the _intention_ behind it—was truly there.

"I'll see you at the trial," he told Martin. "Thank you, for being willing to think better of me."

Martin smiled a last time, before he was informed that his time was up. "I'll see you soon," he promised. Then the sound was cut off and their short communication came to an end. Martin could only hope that Adam had listened and wouldn't try to end it. Not until the trial.

So many things could still change.

\- - - - - 

__  
**THREE MONTHS LATER**  


"Darren!" the voice of an elderly woman called from inside the Dog-Eared Page bookshop to the young man on the back terrace sipping a coffee and reading the newspaper. "Can you help me lift these boxes?"

Darren put down the copy of the _Washington Post_ he'd been perusing.

 _Escaped Vigilante's Trail Grows Cold_ the headline said.

"Sure, Lucy," he smiled at the shop's owner and followed her finger, pointing at the three shipping crates on the floor by the door. One by one, he brought them to the counter and used a box cutter to open them so she could shelve the new inventory. "Beautiful day today. I had been hoping for one."

"Yes," she grinned, "they should have warned you before you moved here two months ago...it tends to rain a great deal in Seattle. We like to think that the good outweighs the bad, though."

"Oh, it does. It does. Every day is a fresh start," the young man ran a hand through his dark hair, pushed his glasses up his nose and rang up a customer while Lucy put away the inventory. 

When the customer left, Darren reached into his pocket and his hand lovingly caressed the pendant he kept there. He hoped his mother would have been proud of the choices he'd made.

Every day _was_ a fresh start.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here was are again, at the end of another tale. Thanks so much for your continuing support of our ramblings.
> 
> Our next story is nearly complete. In it, Kili is the son of a wealthy landowner who wants only one thing for his coming of age celebration -- a portrait painted by a poor blond artist he meets on the street. The story is set in a European/Middle Earth-ish serfdom in a year long before our own. We hope you enjoy it.


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